Page 19 of His Contract Queen

It’s almost insulting, actually. Even if I wanted to bolt down the corridor like a startled animal, where would I go? The absurdity of it burns beneath my skin.

When we arrive at Aleksandr’s office, the door to it is pulled open. I’m ushered inside before it shuts behind me.

The room smells faintly of smoke, the scent drifting warmly from somewhere near the hearth. The windows behind his desk are tall, filtering the morning light into muted slashes across the floor. This space feels less like an office and more like a throne room disguised as one. A place where decisions are handed down, not discussed.

Aleksandr is already seated behind his desk.

One arm is draped over the armrest like he’s lounging in his living room instead of holding court. The fingers of his other hand tap lazily against the polished wood in a soft, steady rhythm. The sound shouldn’t bother me. It’s quiet, almost barely audible. But somehow, it grates on my nerves with the same effect as everything else he does.

His expression is neutral, unreadable in a way that borders on unnatural for him. I’ve grown accustomed to the faint curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth, the condescension disguised as charm and the glint of wickedness sparking in his eyes that always accompanies it.

This blankness is worse. It tells me nothing, and that is precisely what makes it terrifying.

He nods toward the desk, the movement small but unmistakably directive—a command disguised as a gesture. My eyes drop to the surface instantly. In front of him sits a neat stack of papers perfectly aligned. They’re arranged with the kind of precision that suggests someone either obsessively meticulous or ruthlessly controlled laid them out.

Given whose desk this is, probably both.

I step forward then. “What is this?”

“Sign these,” he says simply. That’s it. No other explanation follows.

Suspicion crawls up my spine like a cold hand.

I reach for the papers, flipping through the top few. The pages are thick, printed on high-quality stock, because of course they are, and filled with dense legal language that makes my head spin the longer I look. Clauses, subsections, provisions—all written in careful, suffocating detail. It takes longer than I’d like before I understand exactly what I’m looking at.

A marriage contract.

My stomach drops.

Not because I didn’t expect this. Of course I did. This entire arrangement has been marching toward a legal tether from the moment I arrived. The inevitability of it has hung above me like a guillotine, swaying silently over every morning I woke in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a house that wasn’t my own childhood one, surrounded by people who don’t know the real me and never will.

Before this moment, I could simply pretend I was merely a guest in Aleksandr’s home, a temporary presence that would be extracted before anything serious happened. I could pretend my role in this was still distant enough that I hadn’t yet been forced to step across a line that wouldn’t be able to be easily undone.

This is a declaration that I will no longer simply occupy space in his home because he allows it… I will be here because I am legallyattachedto him. Owned in every sense that matters to men like Aleksandr Volkov.

I inhale through my nose, forcing my fingers not to tremble as I pick up the pen placed neatly next to the documents. There’s no sense in backing out now. I am supposed to be portraying a submissive, dutiful wife who doesn’t question or push back against the hand that wants to claim her. Doing anything else but signing the papers would rouse his suspicion of me more than my actions before today already have.

The pen glides too smoothly as I move it across the thick pages, the ink drying far too quickly for my liking. But just like that, I’ve officially stepped over a threshold I can never return from.

When I look up, Aleksandr is watching me with mild surprise flickering across his expression, his first genuine reaction since I entered the room.

“Huh,” he says, faint amusement edging his voice. “I assumed you’d put up more of a fight before resigning yourself to becoming my housewife. Especially after the other night.”

My housewife.

The implication makes my eye twitch. Reducing me down to a decorative extension of his empire with nothing but a few signatures makes my blood boil.

I know why I’m here. I know the mission. I know the role I’m supposed to play. Eventually, I am meant to coax this man into trusting me and become the soft presence he lets his guard down around. To make him lean on me, confide in me, and hand me the very secrets I will later use to bury him.

I know all of that with clear certainty.

But fuck, does it still piss me off how easily men like Aleksandr Volkov walk through this world.

Whatever they demand, they get. Whether that be territory, money, power, a woman to warm their bed. With a snap of their fingers, the people around them bend over backward to accommodate any request, no matter how outrageous or cruel or selfish. They smile while doing it. Maybe even thank them afterward.

Here I am, a pawn disguised as a bride because Aleksandr Volkov decided he wanted one.

From his perspective, it was effortless.