“She doesn’t belong to you.”
His lip curls. “She is my fiancée.”
“She is not,” I reply, leaning in close enough that he can feel it. “You don’t threaten her. You don’t grab her. And you don’t back her into a wall like you own her.”
He tries to straighten, but I keep him pinned. “You think you have standing here?” he sneers.
“I don’t need standing,” I tell him. “I need you to understand something.” My grip tightens. “If you touch her again, I won’t drag you into an alcove next time.”
Konstantin adjusts his jacket as much as he can with my hands still fisted in it. “You’re making a mistake,” he says, but there’s strain under it now.
I lean closer. “No,” I say quietly. “You are.” I shove him back one last time before releasing him.
Konstantin doesn’t look rattled for long. He straightens his jacket with slow, deliberate movements, smoothing the fabric where I grabbed him, adjusting his cuffs as if presentation alone can erase what just happened. The prince slides back into place piece by piece. When he lifts his eyes, they don’t land on me.They land on her. The sneer that curves his mouth isn’t loud, isn’t explosive. It’s worse than that. It’s controlled. Measured.
“This,” he says quietly, gaze dragging over her as if he’s cataloging a disappointment, “is what you reduce yourself to? Clinging to hired muscle in a hallway like common trash.”
The word hangs there, ugly and intentional. I feel Dmitri step into the corridor behind me, his presence sharp and lethal, but Konstantin keeps his focus on Anya. “You embarrass your family,” he continues, voice low but cutting. “You stand here defying me for what? For him? You think this makes you powerful? You think aligning yourself with them shields you from consequences?” His eyes flick toward me briefly, then back to her. “Everything has a cost,” he says. “And when it comes due, do not pretend you weren’t warned.” Then he walks away as if he didn’t just threaten her father and try to break her against a marble wall.
The second he disappears around the corner, I turn toward her, expecting steel, expecting that same composure she’s held all night, but what I see instead is the tremor she’s been suppressing. Her shoulders are tight. Her hands are shaking despite the way she tries to still them. Her jaw is set like she’s still bracing for impact. She looks at me, and something in her fractures.
She crosses the space between us without hesitation and collides into my chest, arms wrapping around me like she needs to anchor herself to something real. I catch her instantly, pulling her into me with both arms, holding her tight enough that she doesn’t have to fight gravity anymore. Her fingers twist into the fabric of my jacket, and I feel the controlled tremble she’s been swallowing all night finally surface. She’s been strong since she stepped out of that car. Strong through the cameras. Strong atthe table. Strong on the dance floor while he tried to claim her in front of half the city. She doesn’t have to be strong with me. “I’m not scared,” she says against my chest, voice tight, breath uneven.
“I know,” I tell her quietly, my hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, keeping her close. “You don’t have to be.”
Her body softens just enough to tell me she’s letting go of the performance. I feel the tension draining in small increments as I hold her there, my chin resting lightly against her hair, shielding her from a world that keeps trying to cage her. I don’t rush her. I don’t push her to explain. I just stand there and let her breathe.
“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that,” I murmur, my voice low but steady. “He doesn’t get to threaten you. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to decide who you belong to.”
Her fingers tighten once more before loosening, like she’s choosing to believe that.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, not because I think this ends quietly, but because whatever comes next, she won’t face it alone.
Dmitri reaches us seconds after Konstantin disappears, his expression carved from stone but his eyes sharp and assessing. He takes in the corridor, the tension still hanging in the air, the way Anya is holding herself upright by sheer will.
“We need to get her out of here,” he says, already reaching for his phone.
I nod once.
He types quickly, thumb moving with clipped precision. A moment later he lowers the phone. “The car will meet us in the back. Follow me.”
I don’t argue. I slide my arm firmly around Anya’s waist, pulling her close against my side as we move. She doesn’t protest. She doesn’t speak. She just walks with us, spine straight out of habit, even though I can feel the tremor running through her beneath the silk of her dress.
We avoid the main ballroom, cutting through a service corridor where the music fades into a distant hum. Staff glance at us but look away just as quickly. Dmitri leads without hesitation, shoulders squared, pace controlled but fast.
The back exit opens to cool night air and a waiting black sedan idling under dim exterior lights. The driver steps out immediately, opening the rear door.
I guide Anya inside first. She moves mechanically, like she’s running on whatever strength she has left. I slide in after her.
Dmitri leans down slightly before closing the door. His gaze locks onto mine.
“Get her back to the hotel,” he says evenly. “Do not leave her side.”
“I won’t.”
He studies me for half a second longer, then nods once. He closes the door and steps toward the driver’s window, speaking rapidly in Russian, low and direct. I catch only fragments. Instructions. Routes. Security.
A moment later, the car pulls away from the curb and merges into traffic.
