Filipp freezes.
And for a moment—just a moment—the mask slips.
The grin goes tight, brittle. Behind it, something ugly brews. Something resentful and cracked.
His eyes land on me again—one final, unsettling flick of possession—and I swear my skin shrinks in protest.
Then: a nod. Mocking. Composed.
He steps back, the grin returning, but it’s thinner now. Hollow.
Before I can blink, Konstantin’s men close in.
Two of them. Silent. Suited. Moving with that Bratva efficiency that makes your spine lock up. No raised voices. No dramatic scene. Just two hands on Filipp’s arms, firm enough to make a point.
He doesn’t fight.
But his smile twists—uglier now. Tight and forced, like it’s been stapled to his face.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he says, gaze landing on me. “She’ll learn, eventually.”
Konstantin steps forward slightly, just enough to cast a shadow over him. And then Filipp’s gone, whisked away.
“Whatjusthappened? That’s your brother?” My voice is low, tight, aimed toward the center of his suit jacket.
He doesn’t look back. “My stepbrother.”
Of course. Of course there’s a stepbrother. There’s always a stepbrother in these kinds of fucked-up dynasties.
His hand moves again—this time not to possess but to hold. He laces his fingers into mine.
And suddenly, I’m just standing there, hand in his, surrounded by Russian billionaires and glass-eyed heiresses, blinking like a confused Barbie at a Bratva banquet.
One of his men returns, tall and unbothered, whispering something in Russian into Konstantin’s ear.
Konstantin’s face doesn’t change. But I feel the tension in the hand wrapped around mine. Just a twitch, a shift. He nods once.
I, meanwhile, am battling a full-blown foot cramp and the overwhelming urge to scream.
Nope. Not now, Satan.
I try to hold it in. I do. But my left foot does this slow, traitorous spasm inside my heel, and my entire leg seizes uplike it’s auditioning for a high school production of “Pain: The Musical.”
I let out a squeaky breath through my nose. It’s either that or yelp like a wounded animal.
“You’re limping,” he says.
“I am not limping.”
He levels me with a look that says he knows I’m lying. A very annoying look. A smug, hot look that makes me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
“I said come.” His hand slides around my waist.. I don’t argue—because walking anywhere else sounds like actual death.
He leads me past the guests, past the champagne and marble, through a hallway of golden sconces and muted chaos. Then—he opens a door. Dressing room. Quiet. Empty.
He doesn’t ask. He guides. Lowers me onto a velvet chaise like he owns the air in this room and the muscles in my legs.
“I’m fine—” I try.
