I don’t flinch. My gaze locks on his. “She never wanted to destroy me. Only hurt me. And I earned that.” My voice hardens, darker. “But you crossed a line the moment you put her in danger.”
No theatrics. No shouting. No bravado. Just a quiet pronouncement of doom, and the weight behind it is heavier than any weapon.
Mikhailov’s smirk falters. I can see the calculation behind his eyes, the momentary flash of doubt as he realizes he underestimated me. He might have planned for my rage, but he didn’t anticipate this—controlled, measured, and inevitable.
I shift, just slightly, and the air between us tightens, electric, ready to snap. “This ends tonight,” I murmur, and even the shadows seem to lean closer to listen.
Mikhailov straightens, forcing arrogance back onto his face like armor. “Sebastian, we both know your hands aren’t clean. You cost my family millions in black-market dealings.”
“You were selling stolen cultural artifacts,” I cut in coldly. “I crippled your network because you profited off desecration.”
His jaw tightens. Rage bleeds through the cracks. “You ruined my family.”
“You ruined yourselves.”
He opens his mouth again, but I raise a finger. One. Sharp. Final.
“No,” I say quietly. “This is why you’re really angry. You tried to buy me. You wanted me exclusive—to your auctions, your clients, your dirty empire. And I said no. My talent isn’t owned. Not by you. Not by anyone.”
His eyes narrow, memory flashing there—resentment, humiliation, obsession.
For a heartbeat, he just stares. Then his mouth curves into something ugly.
“You always were arrogant,” he says softly. “And now you’ve made a fatal mistake.”
He shifts his weight, glancing past me—counting exits, angles, shadows. His voice drops, stripped of pretense.
“You think you’re walking away from this?” he asks. “Both of you?”
My grip tightens around Sienna’s hand.
Mikhailov smiles, slow and vicious. “I won’t let either of you leave this place alive.”
Behind me, Sienna whispers my name—soft, terrified, pleading. I don’t look back. If I do, if I see her pale face and tear-streaked cheeks, the rage inside me will break its leash.
I need precision.
Not chaos.
“Let her go,” I say evenly. “And I’ll let you walk out of here.”
Mikhailov barks a laugh. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“You’re on Rusnak ground,” I reply. “You are always negotiating with me.”
That lands. I see it in the flicker of hesitation, the recalculation behind his eyes.
“This isn’t Rusnak ground. It’s in my name.”
I don’t argue.
But Mikhailov isn’t finished.
“Fine,” he says, spreading his hands. “If you want her so badly—take her. But understand this: Your business is already collapsing. Your name will follow. Soon you won’t have a wife left to protect.” His gaze slides past me, cruel. “She’ll run from you again. Just like before.”
My jaw tightens. Behind me, I hear Sienna’s sharp inhale.
Then—before I can stop her—she steps out from behind me.
