I have a marriage to arrange.
None of it matters unless she agrees.
The Maybach glides through the wrought-iron gates of the estate, the tires crunching over the pristine gravel driveway. The mansion looms ahead, bathed in cold, artificial light, its towering columns and darkened windows as imposing as the man dying inside it.
Home.
Or at least what once passed for it.
The place looks the same as it always has—grand, controlled, built to intimidate. But there’s a shift in the air tonight. A waiting silence. The kind that comes when men smell blood in the water.
As Viktor steps out to assess the perimeter, I adjust my cuffs, taking my time. Arseny watches me, waiting for my next move. He understands this is no ordinary homecoming. The moment I step through those doors, it’s war.
Tatiana is already inside. So is Filipp. The priest. The inner circle. All waiting. Watching. Calculating.
Let them.
I walk up the marble steps, each measured footfall an unspoken declaration. Two guards stand at the entrance, straightening as I approach. They pull the doors open without a word.
The room is dim, lit by flickering candlelight. My father’s massive bed dominates the space, his once-imposing frame now reduced to a ghost beneath the covers. The steady beep of machines keeps time with his shallow breaths.
But it’s not him I look at first.
It’s them.
Tatiana, perched elegantly on a chair near the bed, her posture carefully curated to exude concern. A silk shawl draped over her shoulders, hands folded delicately. Filipp stands near the fireplace, eyes fixed on the flames like he’s already envisioning his own coronation. The priest lingers near the foot of the bed, murmuring something in soft Russian.
And then, near the window—
Yelena Belov.
My mother.
She sits perfectly still in a tall chair, hands clasped. Her black dress is simple but refined, pearls resting against her collarbone.Her expression is unreadable, eyes distant, staring past all of this—pasthim, pastthem.
She doesn’t acknowledge me.
Not at first.
Tatiana is the one to break the silence. “You took your time,” she muses, not bothering to stand. “I suppose we should be grateful you decided to come at all.”
I don’t spare her a glance. Instead, I step further into the room, the weight of my presence shifting the air.
Yelena finally looks up.
Her gaze meets mine—calm, composed. No warmth. No surprise. Just… observation.
“Mama,” I say.
A beat. A flicker of something in her expression. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Konstantin.” Her voice is quiet. Measured.
Filipp exhales, arms crossing over his chest. “Well, now that we’ve all assembled,” he says, the impatience in his tone barely concealed, “perhaps we can focus on what matters.”
My fingers twitch. He doesn’t matter.
Tatiana lets out a slow breath, shaking her head. “What matters,” she murmurs, “is ensuring the transition of power is handled properly.”
