“I’m not,” I reply evenly, stepping closer, forcing the words out steady and measured. “Marry me.”
His eyes narrow, and the accusation lands before he even speaks.
His eyes narrow, dark and calculating. “You’re trying to manipulate the organization into protecting you indefinitely,” he says, his voice low and accusing. “Using marriage, I suppose, as leverage. It’s calculated ambition.”
I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze squarely. “I’m not bluffing. I’m not playing games. And yes, you’re right. I’m being ambitious. I have every right to be. I’m Valeria Petrova, and someone just snatched that power away from me.”
He narrows his eyes.
“This is my reality. My name, my family, my position in Moscow…my cousin took it! And he will never stop hunting me. I am the last surviving heir. If I don’t make my survival a priority, no one will. This isn’t ambition. It’s survival.”
He shakes his head, like the thought itself is absurd.
I step even closer, voice deliberate and relentless. “You will gain something from the marriage. A Petrov heir. A marriage alliance would benefit both families by strengthening their international influence. A child would ensure the Rusnak name gains direct access to my father’s former territories in Russia if they eventually reclaim control.”
Timofey laughs again, a sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t know the implications of what you’re saying. This arrangement between us is purely professional. No need to complicate it with marriage or a child. Children…children make things personal.”
“Just one child,” I reiterate and shake my head. “And that’s not true. A child doesn’t make things personal. It will onlysolidify the bond between our families, tying survival to loyalty. It’s a deterrent, not sentiment.”
He scoffs. “It’s dangerously convenient for you, Valeria. But not for me. Do you even understand the implications of what you’re proposing? Marriage. An heir. This isn’t a political chess move—it involves a real relationship. Real…risk.”
I meet his gaze evenly, cold and precise. “I understand perfectly. I’m not asking for love. I’m asking for survival. There are other practical ways children can be conceived without sexual intercourse.”
“What?” Timofey frowns, the incredulity plain on his face.
I shrug, staying calm. “Isn’t that what you’re worried about? Don’t worry.”
He blinks, clearly taken aback. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about medical alternatives,” I say, voice steady. “Sperm donation, in vitro fertilization, surrogacy. There are ways to ensure a child carries the Petrov and Rusnak legacy without…complications. None of it requires intimacy.”
Timofey’s eyes narrow, a flicker of incredulity crossing his face. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” I say firmly. “Every step I’m suggesting is strategic. Efficient. Safe.”
He shakes his head slowly, running a hand through his hair again. He seems to do that a lot. No wonder it’s unruly. “Valeria…this attack has gotten to your head. You’re tired. You’re scared. I get it—but this…this is madness.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. His tone softens, but the command in it is undeniable. “Go. Go back to your room. Sleep. Think this through with a clear head. You’re not thinking straight right now.”
I hesitate, fire still burning in my chest, but the weariness of the night and the memory of blood and explosions weigh me down. I nod stiffly, turning toward the door.
I’m almost there when it hits me—if I wait until tomorrow, he’ll have time to come up with a reason to refuse. I have to convince him now.
“Timofey.”
He turns. It’s the first time I’ve ever said his name directly to him, and maybe that’s why his attention snaps fully.
“I’ll show you how serious I am,” I say.
His brows quirk in a mix of curiosity and caution. Before he can ask what I mean, I take the leap. I fling myself at him, standing on tiptoe to reach him.
His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, shock flashing across his face, before my lips find his. The world narrows until nothing exists beyond that moment.
It’s only for a few seconds—barely enough to register the intensity—but I pull back, forcing several steps away from him. I pretend to compose myself, to act unaffected, though my pulse is racing.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His gray eyes narrow slightly as he watches me, silently assessing, the air between us thick with tension. The room feels impossibly quiet, every heartbeat loud in my ears.
I don’t know how long I stand there, caught in the pull of him, but the heat crawling up my skin makes me turn to flee.
