I clap. Hands tight, rigid. My palms burn from pressing them together so hard, but I keep my face light, my eyes soft. I lean slightly into Dimitri’s shoulder—just enough for the cameras. His arm snakes around my waist possessively, and I stiffen under it.
For the world, we are the perfect couple.
For me, I’m a puppet. A calculated, sparkling, obedient puppet.
And yet, I feel a strange thrill. I can play him as well as he plays me. I meet his eyes for a second—a silent acknowledgment that I’m not as helpless as I seem. He notices it too, just for a heartbeat, before resuming the mask of tenderness for the cameras.
I want to tell him,I’m not yours.
But I can’t. Not here. Not with fifty lenses burning into my skin, not with a room full of people hanging on every syllable.
“Your turn,” he whispers in my ear, low and intimate, and I shiver. The words aren’t meant for anyone else, but the heat in them makes my chest squeeze. “Don’t mess it up.”
I force a giggle, pretending he just said something flirtatious. My lips curve into a practiced smile. Then I pull away and stride toward the podium he just stepped away from, heels clicking sharp against the floor. My hands sweat, but my back is straight. My chin is lifted.
I clear my throat. Every eye in the room is on me. Every flash feels like it could melt me. I breathe in. I breathe out. And I speak.
“I love my husband,” I say, voice even, confident, though my stomach flips. “These rumors are untrue. And I ask…I ask that everyone lets our marriage breathe without poison. Please.”
I feel the room shift. Whispers ripple through the crowd. Clicks of cameras grow louder. My words are devoured, chewed over, repeated in headlines before they’re even spoken. And I watch Dimitri, standing just beside me, his expression carefully neutral—but his eyes flicker with that same gray storm I know too well. He’s watching me. Assessing. Calculating.
“We’re newlyweds, and we have blood flowing through our veins. Such evil news isn’t what we need right now. We don’t need expensive presents or loud declarations; we just ask to be left alone. Thank you.”
I finish, nod slightly, and step down from the podium. He slips his hand into mine as we descend. Firm. Possessive. It’s a reminder of the chains I’m wearing.
“You were good,” he murmurs into my ear, his voice low, almost a growl. “Almost made me fucking believe you.”
I open my mouth to reply, to spit some sharp retort, but before the words leave, everything erupts.
The lights flicker violently. A shattering crash of glass echoes across the lobby. Then gunfire. Sharp, chaotic, impossible to ignore.
I barely register it before Dimitri yanks me down to the floor, his body pressed against mine, shielding me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world. My heart is slamming so hard I think it’ll break my ribs.
“Stay down!” he shouts, though his own voice is steady, commanding.
The lobby becomes a warzone. Security floods in, guns drawn, yelling, returning fire. The reporters scream and scatter, cameras tumbling across the floor. My hands clutch at Dimitri’s jacket, frozen against the chaos, the heat of him against me grounding me.
Through the flashes and smoke, I catch sight of masked men retreating. One of them shouts something in Russian—“For Koval!”—before disappearing into the chaos.
And yet…and yet, I can’t stop staring at him. Not at the masked men. Not at the shattered glass. Not at the gunfire. Him.
Dimitri. He just protected me with his body. Held me down. Taken every risk on my behalf without hesitation. And despite the bullets, the chaos, the fear—I feel something impossible, raw, and terrifying stirring inside me.
I grip him tighter. “Dimitri…” I whisper, voice trembling, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes are scanning, calculating, lethal, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. But I know, even if he doesn’t admit it, even if he never will—he’s just saved my life.
And the thought leaves me breathless.
When he’s certain the danger has passed, he rises up, towering over me, his eyes scanning every shadow as if expecting the attackers to reappear. Then, finally, he turns his focus on me, his grip firm but careful on my arm.
“Are you okay?” His voice is rough, but underneath it, I catch the slightest tremor of concern. He leans in, scanning my body for injuries as if I were fragile glass.
I shake my head, words failing me. My chest is still hammering from the adrenaline, my hands still trembling from fear—and from the shocking realization that he just risked everything to protect me.
“Come on. Let me get you out of here.”
Before I can protest, he tucks me against his side, one arm wrapping possessively around my waist while the other keeps a careful hold on mine. He moves briskly, each step controlled, cutting a path through the remnants of chaos toward the car.
I feel the press of his chest against mine, the solid weight of him like an anchor in the storm of my panic. The metallicscent of blood and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the expensive cologne he always wears.
