“I’m not Tatiana,” I say, softer now.
“No,” Yelena says thoughtfully. “You’re something more dangerous. You’ve made his children love you. You’ve made himsoft.”
Her voice tightens, not with anger—but with something deeper. Regret. Or maybe jealousy.
“You’ve created the illusion of family,” she says, motioning around the garden, the estate, the life that was never supposed to be mine. “But this isn’t your world. These aren’t your people. And Konstantin isn’t your husband—not in any way that matters.”
The truth stings worse than a lie. Because part of me knows she’s right. The rest of me is screaming.
“I imagine you’re wondering what comes next,” she says calmly, brushing a speck of lint from her sleeve. “What happens when Konstantin discovers his contract wife is carrying his child.”
“I haven’t decided if I’m telling him,” I murmur.
Her brow lifts—impressed or amused, I can’t tell. “Of course you haven’t. That’s why I’m here to clarify your options.”
Something in her tone makes me feel 16 again. Small. Out of my league.
“You have two paths before you,” she continues, holding up a single, manicured finger. “Option one: terminate the pregnancy. Quietly. Discreetly. I know a clinic in Switzerland—very exclusive. No records. No questions.”
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach before I can stop it. The tears rise so fast it startles me. I blink up at the sky like that’ll stop them.
She notices. Of course she does—but she does not care.
“Option two,” she says, tone utterly unchanged. “You accept a generous settlement—let’s say five million. You leave the country. New name, new identity. I’ll make sure Konstantin never finds you, and the child never has to know who he was.”
“Why?” I choke out. “Why are you doing this?”
“You have two weeks to decide,” she says coolly. “The succession ceremony is in six days. Once Konstantin becomesPakhan, there’s no room for personal liabilities. And this—” her eyes drop to my stomach for a fraction of a second, “this is a complication we cannot afford.”
“I’m a complication,” I say bitterly.
“You’re a temporary amusement that’s outlived its purpose.”
The words gut me.
I try to hold steady. To bite the inside of my cheek or blink the heat away. But I can’t stop it.
The tears fall anyway—hot, humiliating, unstoppable. They slip past the defenses I’ve spent months reinforcing. They don’t ask permission. They justfall.
Yelena sees it. Of course she does. But she doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t soften, either.
She steps closer, voice lower now—intimate in a way that burns. “Don’t fool yourself, dear. This was never meant to be real.”
My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with my healing ribs.
“Two weeks,” she says again, straightening. “That child deserves better than to become a pawn in a game you’ll never understand.”
And just like that, she turns—
Crack.
A branch snaps from the hedges just ahead. Sharp. Sudden.
We both freeze.
Yelena’s eyes narrow. Her body shifts, fluid and sharp, trained like a woman who’s lived through too many betrayals. She moves toward the noise.
“Who’s there?”
