27. Katarina
KATARINA
F our days. Four days of staring at the same four walls, eating meals on a tray brought by the maid. The windows remain sealed, thick curtains often drawn tight to block any glimpse of the outside world. My childhood sanctuary has become my prison cell.
The lock clicks, and I don't bother looking up from where I'm sprawled on the bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Or maybe the day before. Time blurs when you're trapped.
“Katarina.” Father's voice cuts through the stale air. “Get up.”
I continue staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster for the hundredth time. “No.”
“I wasn't asking.” His footsteps approach, measured and deliberate. “You're meeting your fiancé today. Anton will be here within the hour, and I expect you to be presentable and polite.”
The word 'fiancé' hits like a physical blow. I've spent three days trying to convince myself this nightmare wasn't real, that he'd change his mind or come to his senses. But hearing it again makes everything crystallize into a sharp, painful focus.
I sit up slowly, meeting his cold stare. “Go to hell.”
His expression doesn't change. This isn't the father who used to read me bedtime stories or who taught me to ride a bike. This is Igor Lebedev, the man who builds empires on other people's blood.
“You will shower, dress appropriately, and conduct yourself like the lady you were raised to be.” Each word is clipped. “Anton Petrov is doing our family a considerable favor by accepting this arrangement.”
“A favor?” I laugh, the sound bitter and raw. “You mean accepting damaged goods? Is that how you sold me to him?”
“You will not speak of yourself that way.”
“Why not? It's what you think, isn't it? That I'm broken somehow because I won't marry whoever you choose? Because I built something of my own instead of waiting for you to hand me off to the highest bidder?”
His jaw tightens. “What you built was an illusion. Everything you have, everything you are, flows from this family. From me.”
“Then take it.” I stand, fury burning through the numbness that's kept me company for three days. “Take the company, take the money, take everything with your name on it. I don't care.”
“You will care when you're living on the streets.”
“Better than living as Anton Petrov's wife.”
Father's face hardens into stone. “There is no choice, Katarina. This decision has been made.”
“By whom? You?” I step closer, my hands clenched into fists. “You don't get to decide my life anymore.”
“I am your father. I have spent twenty-eight years protecting you, providing for you, ensuring your future. This is that future.”
“Protection?” The word tastes like poison. “You call locking me in this room protection? You call selling me to Anton Petrov protection?”
“I call it survival.” His voice drops to that quiet, dangerous tone I remember from childhood. The one that meant the conversation was over, whether I liked it or not. “The alliance with the Petrovs secures our position. Your marriage to Anton ensures our family's continued prosperity.”
“And what if I refuse? What if I simply won't say the vows?”
Something flickers in his eyes—not anger, but something far worse. Pity. “You think this is a negotiation, little girl. It isn't. The contracts are signed. The arrangements are made. Ivan’s family has already transferred the agreed-upon assets.”
My stomach drops. “Assets?”
“Territory. Business interests. Mutual protection agreements.” He straightens his cufflinks with practiced indifference. “You are already purchased, Katarina. The wedding is merely a formality.”
“You sold me.” The words come out as a whisper, but they echo in the room like a scream. “You actually sold me.”
“I secured your future. Anton is a good man from a strong family. You will want for nothing.”
“Except freedom. Except choice. Except love.”
He moves toward the door, our conversation apparently over in his mind. “One hour, Katarina. Shower. Dress appropriately. Anton will expect to see the woman he's marrying, not this sullen child.”
“And if I don't?”
He pauses at the threshold without turning around. “Then I will have the staff dress you myself. Either way, you will meet your fiancé today looking like a Lebedev should.”
“This isn't over, Papa.”
“It has been over since the moment Anton’s father called me three weeks ago.” He opens the door. “One hour.”
The lock clicks back into place, trapping me with the suffocating weight of my new reality.
One hour. I stare at the door, my father's ultimatum echoing in my mind. The shower runs hot against my skin, but I can't wash away the reality of what's happening. As I towel off, a bitter realization settles over me like ice water.
I was freer in Erik's compound than I am in my own home.
The thought hits me with startling clarity.
Even as his captive, even knowing he was my enemy, I had more autonomy in those rooms than I've ever had under my father's roof.
Erik asked what I wanted. He listened when I spoke.
He gave me space to move, to think, to choose—even if those choices were limited.
Here, I have no choices at all.
I pull on a simple black dress, my movements mechanical.
The irony is so sharp it cuts. I spent weeks in that compound planning my escape, desperate to return to what I thought was my life.
But this isn't my life—it never was. Every decision, every opportunity, every moment of supposed freedom was an illusion my father allowed me to maintain.
At least Erik was honest about what I was to him.
My hands shake as I apply makeup, trying to cover the exhaustion and despair that have hollowed out my face over the past three days. In that compound, I felt alive. Dangerous, yes. Terrified, sometimes. But alive in a way I've never experienced before or since.
Erik saw me. Not the Lebedev name, not the useful alliance I represented, not the chess piece I could become. He saw me—my intelligence, my stubbornness, my desires. He challenged me, pushed me, and demanded that I be present, real, and honest.
When did I last feel that here? When did my father last look at me and see Katarina instead of seeing an asset to be managed?
The answer comes swiftly and brutally: never.
I was born into this cage, raised within its bars, trained to believe the pretty golden prison was protection rather than captivity. Only now, facing a life sentence as Anton Petrov's wife, do I understand the difference between the cage I was born in and the compound where I truly lived.
For the first time in twenty-eight years, I tasted what freedom could feel like. And it wasn't in my corner office, my luxury apartment, or my successful company.
It was in Erik Ivanov's arms, in his bed, in the space between his commands and my defiance.
The knock on my door breaks through my thoughts. “Miss Katarina? Your father is expecting you downstairs.”
I descend the staircase with measured steps, each one bringing me closer to a future I don't want. The marble feels cold beneath my feet, matching the chill that's settled in my chest since Father's ultimatum.
Anton Petrov stands in the formal living room with his back to me, examining one of Father's prized paintings.
Even from behind, his presence fills the space—broad shoulders beneath an expensive suit, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled.
At forty-three, he carries himself with the confidence of a man who's never been told no.
“Anton.” I keep my voice level. We've met at enough family functions for me to know exactly what I'm dealing with.
He turns, and that familiar predatory smile spreads across his face. “Katarina. Even more beautiful than I remembered.” His eyes rake over me from head to toe, lingering in places that make my skin crawl. “Your father has excellent taste in breeding stock.”
The comment hits like a slap. “Excuse me?”
“Come now, don't be shy. We're practically family.” He gestures to the sitting area. “Your father tells me you've been playing at business these past few years. Cute little hobby.”
“My company isn't a hobby. It's a legitimate cybersecurity firm with?—”
“Which you'll be closing, of course.” He settles into Father's favorite chair like he already owns the place. “My wife won't need to work. I have more than enough to provide for you.”
I remain standing, my hands clenched at my sides. “I'm not closing my company.”
Anton chuckles, the sound grating against my nerves. “You will. You'll be living in the Petrov estate once we're married. My mother is very traditional about these things.”
“Your mother?”
“She's looking forward to having a daughter-in-law to train properly. Apparently, your father never taught you proper domestic skills.” His gaze drops to my hands. “Those soft fingers will need toughening up for real women's work.”
The condescension in his tone makes my jaw clench. “I see.”
“Don't worry, little dove. I'm not unreasonable. You'll have your books, your pretty dresses, and whatever trinkets make women happy. As long as you remember your primary duties as my wife.”
The way he says 'primary duties' leaves no question about his meaning. My stomach turns.
“And what duties would those be?”
“Producing heirs, keeping house, entertaining my business associates.” He leans back, completely at ease. “Being decorative when I need you to be and available when I want you to be.”
Available. Like I'm a commodity he's purchasing rather than a person he's marrying.
“How romantic.”
His eyes narrow at my sarcasm. “Careful, Katarina. Sarcasm is unattractive in a woman. We'll need to work on that sharp tongue of yours.”
“Work on my tongue?” I let out a laugh that could cut glass. “How generous of you to offer your expertise. Tell me, Anton, how many wives have you trained before me? Or do you prefer to start with the inexperienced ones?”
His face darkens. “Watch yourself.”
“Oh, I'm watching. I'm watching a middle-aged man who thinks buying a woman makes him entitled to reshape her into his personal doll.” I take a step closer, my voice dropping to match his earlier tone. “How's that working out for your ego? Having to purchase what other men earn?”
Anton stands abruptly, his bulk imposing in the suddenly too-small room. “Your father warned me you had spirit. He assured me it could be... managed.”
“Managed?” I laugh again, sharper this time. “Like livestock? How flattering.”
“You have no idea what kind of life I'm offering you.”
“A life as your breeding stock, domestic servant, and decorative accessory?
You're right. I can't imagine anything more appealing.” I cross my arms. “Tell me, when you discussed this arrangement with my father, did you specify whether you prefer your wives broken immediately or if you enjoy the process of breaking them yourself?”
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. “Careful, little dove.”
“Stop calling me that. I'm not your dove or anything else.” I hold his stare without flinching. “And if you think I'm going to simper and curtsy my way into your bed, you've clearly never done your research.”
“I know exactly what I'm getting.” His voice drops to a growl. “A spoiled princess who thinks her father's money makes her untouchable. But Daddy's contracts are already signed, sweetheart. Your opinions stopped mattering the moment I decided I wanted you.”
“Then you're getting damaged goods after all. Because the woman you think you're buying? She doesn't exist.” I smile, cold and sharp. “What you're actually getting is someone who will make your life miserable every single day until one of us dies.”
Anton studies me for a long moment, then throws back his head and laughs. “You know what? I think I'm going to enjoy breaking you.”
The casual cruelty in his words makes my blood run cold, but I keep my expression steady. After he leaves with promises to “see me soon,” I climb the stairs to my prison with one thought burning through my mind.
I need to find a way out of here before the wedding. Because if I don't escape soon, I'll be trapped forever in a life that will slowly kill everything I am.