The words don’t make sense at first. We’re getting married within the week. I feel it physically, like a punch right under the ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath away and leave my whole body locked in place because my brain is trying to decide if I misheard him or if the entire hall actually tilted sideways.
Artyom stands there like he just announced something as simple as dinner plans, calm and certain and terrifyingly composed, while my whole world lurches sideways and tries to correct itself around him. Vladimir’s eyes flick toward me like he’s studying a new, bizarre toy.
Artyom steps in front of me a little, not fully enough to hide me, but enough to make it clear that whatever just happened wasn’t an accident. His shoulders are rigid, the lines of his back tight, his jaw set in that way he gets when he’d burn a building down before backing up even one step.
And all I can think is that he didn’t ask me. He didn’t even warn me.
My pulse is loud in my throat, louder than the silence stretching across the marble floor, louder than the sound of Vladimir’s amusement, louder than anything except the sick shock pouring hot and cold through my body at the same time.
Mikhail moves nearer, his posture alert, but not enough to hide the flicker in his eyes that says he knows Artyom didn’t plan this. My hand is still on Artyom’s arm, and I’m suddenly aware of everything—the warmth of his skin, the hard line of muscle under my fingers, the way he reacted to his father looking at me.
He said it because Vladimir looked at me too long and something in Artyom snapped. The realization hits me harder than the announcement itself.
When the moment finally breaks, when Vladimir turns and signals for the staff to take bags, when the hallway begins to shift back into motion, Artyom finally turns his head just enough to look at me, his eyes unreadable.
I don’t say a word until we’ve left the mansion and driven over to the house he lives in.
The second it closes, I spin around.
“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out lower than I expect, almost breathless, not angry in the way I imagined.
Artyom stands by the door of the bedroom, every line of him stiff, controlled, like he’s holding himself together out of sheer will.
“Kira—”
“No,” I say, stepping back, my hands lifting because I need space, because if I don’t put space between us I’m afraid I’ll start shaking. “No. You don’t get to start with my name like that. You don’t get to— to declare something like that in front of him without even talking to me.”
His jaw tightens. “You heard what he said.”
“I don’t care what he said,” I snap, though part of me does, part of me heard the malice in Vladimir’s tone, part of me felt the danger in. “I care that you—Artyom—what were you thinking? I was supposed topretendto be your fiancée. Pretend. Fake. Acting. That was the deal. This—this marriage thing? That wasn’t part of anything.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to hold himself together, his breathing heavy, uneven in a way that cracks something open inside me.
“I know,” he finally says, but the words sound torn from him.
“Then why did you say it?”
His silence hits the room like a weight dropping, sudden and heavy. I can see it in his eyes—the panic, the regret, the want, all tangled together—and some stubborn part of me refuses to let him hide behind silence now.
“Tell me,” I whisper, and I don’t look away.
He drags a hand over his jaw, slow and almost painful, and takes a step toward me, stops halfway, shoulders tense, as if taking one more step would push us past some invisible point we can’t come back from.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and unsteady at the edges. “I said it because I meant it.”
The sound of those words sends something sharp through my chest, a flutter that feels too much like fear and too much like wanting.
“For how long?” My voice barely makes it out.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes dropping for a second before finding mine again. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it would come out like that. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even realize I—” He breathes out hard, the kind of exhale that sounds like surrender. “When he looked at you like that, something in me… snapped. I reacted.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “That is not a reason to marry me.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
The quiet in the room shifts, warmer, heavier, pulling me toward him even though I’m already trying not to fall.
He takes another step closer, and this time I don’t move. There’s something raw and unguarded in his eyes, almost vulnerable.
