Irina. My father’s perfect choice. The Mikhailova name came with everything Anatoly wanted—prestige, old money, and a web of political connections that reinforced his empire. “You’ll build something great together,” he’d said when he introduced us, like she was an asset on a ledger instead of a woman.
I hated her almost as much as I hated him for forcing us together. Not that it mattered—she never wanted me, either. Ours was a marriage of two strangers playing a game neither of us had signed up for. She didn’t care about the empire, about me, or even about our children.
And yet, her absence sits on my chest like a weight I can’t shake. My jaw tightens as the memories cut through—Lev’s wide-eyed confusion, Nikolai clinging to my leg, and Alya’s shrill cries echoing down the hallway, too little to understand anything except that her mother was gone. I blamed her for leaving, but deep down, I’ve never stopped blaming myself for trusting her.
For thinking she’d stay.
“Konstantin,” Boris says, breaking the silence. His tone isn’t sharp, but it carries enough weight to pull my attention back to him. “The terms are clear. The council will not accept an incomplete household, regardless of your existing children.”
I let go of the chair abruptly, my hand flexing as though trying to rid itself of the lingering tension.
“So, what?” I say, glaring at Boris. “You want me to find some poor woman, throw a ring on her finger, and pump out a kid in under a year? Does that sound realistic to you?”
Boris doesn’t flinch—he never does. “Realistic or not, it is the requirement. The council will not bend the rules set by your father.”
Tatiana gives a soft laugh, the kind that sends a spike of irritation straight down my spine. “Well, I suppose Filipp should start preparing, then. A real family man—wife, children, stability. Isn’t that what the Bratva needs?”
I snap my head toward her, my glare sharp enough to cut. “Over my dead body.”
Tatiana’s smile grows wider as she stands and walks toward Mother. She stops beside the chair, resting a hand on Mother’s shoulder. The gesture looks casual, but there’s nothing casual about Tatiana.
“Konstantin,” Mother says, her gaze finally meeting mine. “Enough.”
I turn to her, the frustration I’ve been holding back boiling over. “Enough?” The word feels heavy in my mouth. “You’re really just going to sit there and let them pull this? While he’s lying there like that?” I motion to the bed, where my father remains lifeless.
Mother doesn’t answer immediately. Her expression stays calm, but her silence is louder than anything she could say. She looks at me for a long moment before glancing away, her hands still folded neatly in her lap.
“Your father’s decisions were final,” she says. “You know how he is—or was. There’s no room for argument.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My fingers flex as I try to stop myself from gripping the chair again. I stare at her, searching her face for something—regret, anger, anything—but there’s nothing there. She’s spent her entire life bowing to Anatoly’s rules, accepting everything he’s thrown at her.
I know why. She was sold to him by her father like a piece of property. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to watch.
“You always did know how to stay in line,” I say quietly, the bitterness slipping out before I can stop it.
Tatiana doesn’t miss her chance to chime in. She smooths her skirt and presses her hand more firmly on Mother’s shoulder.
“Well, Konstantin,” she says, “I suppose the decision is yours. Either step up and follow your father’s wishes, or step aside and let Filipp take what he’s been preparing for his entire life.”
I laugh, short and sharp, because that’s all I have left.
The only other sound is the steady beeping of the heart monitor.
“Filipp?” I say finally, my focus shifting back to Tatiana. “The same Filipp who spends more time with hookers than with his own wife and kids? The same Filipp who couldn’t organize a lunch order without screwing it up?”
Tatiana tilts her head slightly. “Watch your tone, Konstantin,” she says. “Filipp has been preparing for years. He has a family. He understands what the Bratva needs—tradition and stability.”
“Tradition?” I step closer. “I’ll tear this empire apart before I let Filipp take anything that belongs to me.”
Tatiana lets out a low laugh, the kind that grates against every nerve.
“You have two months,” Boris says, his voice calm but dripping with calculation. “I suggest you start planning a wedding, Mr. Belov. The clock is ticking, and the Bratva will notwait.” He picks up the papers he’d placed earlier, tapping the edges into a neat stack.
The room goes quiet again. I glance at my father, his still form a reminder that even now, he’s controlling everything from the shadows.
Tatiana turns to me, smiling as though she’s already won. “Better start thinking about rings, dear stepson. Time’s running out.”
I clench my fists, the beeping monitor matching the rhythm of my rising fury. The thought of Filipp asPakhan? Unthinkable. But the thought of bending to my father’s last manipulative scheme feels just as bitter.And this snake of a woman plots to hand my birthright to her spineless son?
