The word lands like a punch.
Anya’s eyes close briefly, and when they open again, there is nothing soft left in them. Her expression turns to stone.
“You’re engaged?” I ask. I have no right to feel the surge of anger that hits me, but it burns anyway.
“It was arranged when they were children,” Dimitri explains quietly. “A marriage meant to bind the two families together so they could rule the crime world in Russia.”
Viktor shoots Dimitri a warning glare, but the damage is already done.
Anya lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “What they mean to say,” she replies evenly, her voice edged with steel, “is that I am expected to breed the heirs of the alliance.” The room goes still and all the men, and it’s all men she’s surrounded by, stare at her. “I will not rule,” she continues, her gaze locked on her father now. “I will stand beside him like the good little wife, smile when I am told to smile, and do exactly as I am told. Just like I always have.” The words are too calm.
Mikhail looks away first. Dimitri’s jaw tightens. Viktor’s face hardens, but he does not interrupt her.
She folds her arms across her chest, not defensive, just contained. Controlled. “Let’s not pretend this is about power for me,” she adds quietly. “It never was.” Her gaze shifts to her father. “Set up the meeting. Let’s get this over with.” Then she turns and walks out, spine straight, steps measured. The door closes behind her, and every man in the room watches her go like they just witnessed something they do not fully understand.
I have never met a woman who carries both steel and fractures in the same breath. She is a walking contradiction. Beautiful. Unyielding. Tired in a way that settles into the bones. She will do what they ask. She will shoulder it because that is what she has always done. And it will cost her. It always costs her. She has never been allowed to be free. Not really. Not without strings. Not without eyes on her. And I cannot stand here and pretend that is acceptable.
She deserves wind in her hair without it feeling like borrowed air. She deserves to make a choice that is only hers. To wake up one morning and not feel the weight of everyone else’s expectations pressing against her ribs. She deserves joy that does not require sacrifice.
Damn every man in her life who mistakes obedience for strength and expects her to kneel just because they can.
In this moment, I know exactly who I’m going to be. Not another man who cages her and calls it protection. Not another voice telling her what she owes. I’m going to be the one who breaks the locks. I will tear every chain off her life piece by piece. Quietly if I have to. Loudly if they make me. I will stand between her and anyone who thinks they own even a fraction of her. And when she’s finally free, when she’s standing on her own two feet with nothing weighing her down, I won’t demand anything in return. I’ll just stay, if she’ll have me. I won’t tell her who to be. I won’t shrink her to make myself feel bigger. I won’t mistake control for love. She has had enough of that to last a lifetime.
She gets to be exactly what she is. Fierce. Complicated. Soft in places she hides. And I’ll choose her always. Every single day. She is my future. She is the beginning I didn’t know I was waiting for and the end of every road that never felt like home. In a world that chews up good things and spits them out, she is the only thing that feels certain. The only thing that matters.
ELEVEN
ANYA
I meetKonstantin at a lounge he chooses. It sits high above the river, all glass and shadow and curated exclusivity. It smells faintly of aged whiskey and polished wood. His security lines the corridor outside. Ours mirrors them. The symmetry feels like a warning.
When I step inside, he is already waiting for me. He turns at the sound of the door closing, his expression arranged into something smooth and welcoming. “Anastasiya.” He says my name like it still belongs to a future he assumes is intact.
“Konstantin.” I remain standing.
He gestures toward the seating area. “Please.”
I sit first and he follows a beat later, folding himself into the chair opposite me with careful composure. “I was relieved when I heard you were recovered,” he begins. “The reports were troubling.”
“Being abducted tends to generate those.”
His mouth tightens slightly. “You were not harmed.”
For a second, I wonder if he actually believes that. I hold his gaze and let the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. “I was beaten,” I say evenly. “I was chained to a concrete floor. I was found bloody and bruised in the back of a warehouse.” The words do not shake. My pulse does, but my voice does not. “Do not rewrite what happened to me to make yourself more comfortable.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Irritation. Calculation. Maybe even guilt. It is gone before I can pin it down. “You believe I had something to do with it,” he says finally.
“I believe Volkov did not act without confidence.”
“Volkov was reckless,” Konstantin replies dismissively. “Reckless men overestimate their leverage.”
“He is dead,” I say. “Reckless men rarely move alone.”
His fingers curl against the armrest. “You think I sanctioned your kidnapping.”
“I think,” I reply, “that in our world, men do not move without understanding who benefits.”
His expression hardens. “You are accusing me.”
