25. Katarina
KATARINA
S unlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then it all crashes back—the warehouse, the gunshots.
I'm in my childhood bedroom at the Lebedev estate.
The same pale blue walls, the same antique furniture that always made me feel like I was living in a museum.
My father insisted that I stay the night after everything that happened.
“Just for safety,” he'd said, his voice gentle in that practiced way that used to make me believe he actually cared.
My body aches in places that have nothing to do with yesterday's chaos. Erik's marks are still on my skin, hidden beneath the silk pajamas my father provided. I run my fingers over a faint bruise on my collarbone, remembering how his teeth felt there.
Stop. I can't think about him. Not here.
I swing my legs out of bed and pad across the hardwood floor toward the door. I'll have coffee first, then I'll figure out how to get back to my apartment. Back to my life. Back to pretending the last week never happened.
The door handle doesn't turn.
I grip it harder, twisting in both directions. Nothing. The brass handle moves freely, but the door itself won't budge.
“What the hell?”
I try again, putting my shoulder into it this time. The door doesn't give even a millimeter. Cold dread spreads through my chest as I examine the frame more carefully. There's no visible lock from this side, which means?—
“No, no, no.” The words slip out as I yank on the handle repeatedly, panic rising in my throat.
I press my ear against the wood, listening for movement in the hallway beyond. Silence.
My breathing quickens as I back away from the door. This isn't for my safety. This is something else entirely.
I rush to the windows, but even as I reach for the latches, I know what I'll find. They don't open. They never did in this room—father had them sealed years ago after some security concern I never bothered to learn about.
The walls that once felt protective now feel like a prison.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my hands shaking as the truth settles over me. I'm not a guest here.
I'm a prisoner. Again.
The sound of a key turning in the lock makes my spine go rigid. I stand, squaring my shoulders as the door swings open.
Father steps inside, immaculate as always in his charcoal suit.
His silver hair is perfectly combed, his expression carefully neutral.
But I know that look—the same one he wore when I was sixteen and refused to attend cotillion with the Volkov boy.
The same one that I declared when I chose computer science as my major instead of the “appropriate” liberal arts degree he'd chosen.
“Katarina.” His voice carries that familiar note of paternal authority that used to make me shrink. Not anymore.
“Why is my door locked?” I don't move from where I stand beside the bed, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest.
He closes the door behind him with a soft click. The sound feels final.
“For your protection. After yesterday's events?—”
“Bullshit.” The word cuts through his practiced concern. “If this were about protection, I'd be in my own apartment with my own security team. Not locked in my childhood bedroom like I'm twelve years old.”
Father's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. There's the real him lurking beneath the gentle facade.
“You've been through a traumatic experience. The Ivanovs?—”
“The Ivanovs returned me, as agreed. The trauma is over.” I cross my arms, holding his gaze. “Unless you're planning to create new trauma.”
His eyes narrow. “You've changed.”
“I grew up. You just refused to notice.”
“This independence of yours.” He takes a step closer, and I catch the scent of his expensive cologne. “I allowed you too much freedom. Let you build that little company and live independently. I thought perhaps you'd come to your senses eventually.”
My heart pounds, but I keep my face expressionless. “My little company is worth fifty million dollars.”
“And what good is money without a proper foundation? Without family alliances?” His voice hardens. “You're twenty-eight, Katarina. Unmarried. No children. No real connections to our world.”
There it is. The truth I've been dreading since I woke up in this room.
“I have connections. I have a life.”
“You have illusions.” He straightens his cuffs, the gesture deliberate. “The Petrov family has been very patient.”
The name hits me like ice water. “No.”
“Anton Petrov is still interested despite your previous reluctance.”
“I will not marry Anton Petrov.” The words come out steady. “I will never marry him.”
Father's expression doesn't change, but something cold flickers in his eyes. “You will.”
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach drop. Not a suggestion. Not a request. A decree.
“You can't force me.” But even as I say it, I'm looking at the locked door, the sealed windows, understanding exactly how trapped I am. “I'm not a child anymore. You can't just?—”
“I can do whatever is necessary to protect this family's future.” He adjusts his tie with practiced calm. “The Petrov alliance strengthens our position significantly. Your marriage ensures stability for everyone.”
My chest tightens. “I don't love him. I don't even like him.”
“Love is a luxury we cannot afford.” His voice carries the weight of finality. “Anton is a good match. Powerful family, strong connections. He'll take care of you.”
The word “take” makes bile rise in my throat. Like I'm property to be managed.
“I have my own money. My own company. I don't need anyone to take care of me.”
“Your company exists because I allowed it.” Each word is a nail in a coffin I'm only now realizing was being built around me. “The funding, the connections, the protection from interference—all of it flows from me. From this family.”
The room tilts around me. Everything I built, everything I thought was mine...
“That's not true.” But my voice cracks because deep down, I know it is. The early investors who appeared so conveniently. The contracts materialized without the usual corporate politics. The competitors mysteriously lost interest.
“Your freedom was an illusion. A gift I gave you when you were useful to me in other ways. But now—” He spreads his hands. “Now the family needs something different from you.”
My legs feel weak. I sink onto the bed, the silk pajamas suddenly feeling like chains.
“Please.” The word tastes bitter. “I'm happy. I have a life?—”
“You had a life. Now you have a duty.”
The walls seem to press closer. This room, this house, this family—it's all a cage. It always was. I just convinced myself the door was open when it never moved at all.
My chest constricts, making it hard to breathe.
“I can't.” The confession tears from my throat. “I can't marry Anton because I'm in love with someone else.”
Father's eyebrows rise, surprise flickering across his features. “In love? With whom?”
Heat floods my face. I can't tell him the truth—that I've fallen for Erik Ivanov, our enemy. That the man who held me captive somehow became the person I'd rather stay caged with than face this freedom.
“It doesn't matter who.” My voice shakes. “What matters is that I won’t marry Ivan.”
“You think love changes anything?” Father's laugh is sharp, cutting. “You think your feelings alter the reality of our situation?”
I stand again, pacing to the window despite knowing it won't open. My reflection stares back—pale, desperate. “They should matter. My choices should matter.”
“Your choices led you to be kidnapped by the Ivanovs.” His voice is detached. “Your choices nearly got Natasha Blackwood killed. Your choices have consequences beyond yourself.”
Each word lands like a slap, but it's the truth that hurts most. Erik's hands were on my skin, his voice rough with want when he called me beautiful. The way he looked at me in those final moments, like losing me, would break something inside him.
And I'd felt the same way.
“The man I love—” I turn from the window, meeting Father's cold gaze. “He's not available anyway. It was never going to work.”
“Then this conversation is pointless.” Father adjusts his cuffs again. Anton Petrov will make you a good husband. You'll learn to be content.”
“Content.” The word tastes like ash. “Not happy. Just content.”
“Happiness is temporary. Security lasts.”
My heart pounds against my ribs as memories flood back—Erik's quiet strength, the unexpected gentleness in his touch when he thought I was asleep. The way he looked at me made me feel like I was worth protecting.
Even when he was my captor, I'd felt freer with him than I do now in my father's house.
“I won't do it.” My voice breaks. “I won't marry him.”
Father's expression hardens into something I barely recognize. “You will. Because the alternative is far worse than an unhappy marriage.”
The threat hangs in the air between us, unspoken but understood. This isn't a negotiation.
It's a sentencing.