It terrifies me.
I’m still in bed, trying to make sense of my racing thoughts, when the door opens without warning.
A maid I haven’t seen before enters, young and nervous. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Mr. Sharov is waiting for you.”
My stomach drops. “Where?”
“The east dining room. He asked that you come now.”
Not a request. A summons.
Curiosity wins over defiance. Whatever he wants to say, whatever’s been building since last night—I need to know.
I dress quickly in clothes from the wardrobe. Another dress, this one dark gray, simple but elegant. The kind of thing someone wears to important meetings. The symbolism isn’t lost on me.
The maid leads me through corridors I’m starting to recognize. Down stairs, past the main hall, to a smaller dining room I haven’t been in before.
The space overlooks the east gates—I can see them through tall windows, iron and threat and a constant reminder of exactly how trapped I am. The room itself is intimate compared to what I’ve glimpsed of the main dining hall. Table for eight, maybe ten. Too small for formal entertaining. Big enough to make me feel isolated.
Aleksandr stands at the head of the table.
No jacket today. Just a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with scars I can see clearly now in the morning light.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. We’re alone.
“Sit,” he says. Not harsh, just… expectant.
I don’t. “What is this?”
“A conversation we need to have.” He gestures to the chair nearest him. “Sit, Elena.”
Something in his tone makes my spine stiffen. This isn’t the cold control from the cell or the calculated threat from last night. This is something else. Something final.
I sit because standing feels like pointless defiance when I don’t yet know what I’m defying.
Aleksandr remains standing, hands braced on the back of his chair. Studying me with those pale blue eyes that miss nothing.
“You will marry me,” he says.
The words land like a physical blow. For several seconds, I can’t process them. Can’t make them mean what they clearly mean.
Then I laugh.
Sharp, incredulous, the sound echoing off the walls as I push back from the table. I pace the length of it, needing movement, needing to break the absurdity of what he just said.
“Marry you,” I repeat, still laughing, though it’s starting to sound hysterical even to my own ears. “You’ve lost your mind. Actually lost it. Is this some kind of psychological torture? Because—”
I look at his face. No amusement. No threat. Just certainty settled deep in his expression, immovable as stone.
The laughter dies in my throat. “You’re serious,” I whisper.
“Completely.”
“You can’t just—” I shake my head, trying to find words for the impossibility. “You can’t just decide someone will marry you. That’s not how it works. That’s insane.”
“It’s strategic.”
“Strategic?” My voice rises. “Forcing someone into marriage is—”
