Unless she's looking for a way out, too.
I glance at the sleeping form of Luca on my couch, then back to the screen where Kira's photograph still lurks in a minimized window. Those calculating eyes. That mind is like a steel trap.
Is she my enemy or potentially my greatest ally?
I finish covering my tracks and then do something reckless—I leave a single, encrypted message buried deep in the code where only someone of Kira's caliber would find it:
# BitVenom's encrypted message, hidden within the system
def bitvenom_encryption(rsa_public_key):
# BitVenom's cryptic message
message ="I'm not your thief. But I might be your way out."
bitvenom_salt ="BitVenom_Salt"# Known only to BitVenom
timestamp = 1642095600
# Speczic moment when the message was created
It's dangerous. Possibly the stupidest thing I've ever done. But as I stare at the dossier of my future wife—the woman who might destroy me or save me—I realize that my carefully constructed escape plan has already changed beyond recognition.
The variables are shifting. The algorithm needs rewriting.
And Kira Petrov has just become the most dangerous and intriguing factor in my equation.
CHAPTER 4
Kira
New Yorkin autumn smells like money and decay—the perfect metaphor for my family business.
I step out of the town car into the crisp October air, staring up at the gleaming glass tower that houses my brother's Manhattan penthouse. Forty-seven floors above the city, Nicolai has built himself a fortress of bulletproof windows and digital surveillance that rivals most government installations.
The doorman recognizes me instantly—no doubt from Nicolai's meticulous security briefings—and ushers me toward a private elevator that requires both retinal scan and fingerprint authentication. Pure Nicolai. Paranoid and precise .
"Welcome back to New York, Ms. Petrov," the elevator's AI system greets me in a smooth, emotionless voice.
"Thank you, Anya," I reply, knowing Nicolai has programmed his security system to respond to personalization. My brother understands that true power lies in making machines feel human while ensuring humans behave like machines.
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse foyer, where Nicolai stands waiting. At thirty-one, he looks more like ourmother than any of us—elegant features, wire-rimmed glasses, and a stance that suggests he's perpetually analyzing everyone around him. He wears a charcoal suit with no tie, the perfect picture of calculated casualness.
"You're late," he says by way of greeting, but his eyes warm slightly as he takes my luggage. "The flight from Moscow landed ninety-three minutes ago."
"Traffic," I lie, knowing he's already tracked my phone and knows exactly where I stopped on the way from JFK.
His lip twitches. "The bakery on 9th. Still addicted to those ridiculous croissants."
I roll my eyes and follow him into the main living area, a minimalist expanse of white furniture and black accents that overlooks the Manhattan skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows display the city like a living chessboard, which is exactly how Nicolai sees it.
"Tell me about Father's meeting with you," he says, pouring me a glass of water with precisely three ice cubes—he remembers how I take everything. "Was it as dramatic as your text suggested?"
I take the glass, dropping onto his pristine white sofa and kicking off my heels in a deliberate attempt to disrupt his perfect order. "He threatened to disown me and implied I'd be sold into sexual slavery if I refused the marriage."
“Our father wouldn’t. You know you’re his favorite.” I roll my eyes.
“Whatever.”
