4. Chapter 2
X iomara
I can’t move freely in this life, not as Thiago’s only daughter.
Even at my age, I can still feel the invisible leash around my life tightening. Security shadows me like a second skin everywhere I go. They think I don’t notice the rotation around me, but I do. They think I don’t hear the quiet murmurs into earpieces when I linger too long in one place. I do.
Freedom feels like expensive air, and I’m suffocating from lack of it. Since I was a teenager, I have learned how to create my own freedom, even if it is in bits and pieces.
So, when I heard my father telling my mom last night that Viktor is sending Zasha to him tomorrow morning to discuss some route matters, I saw a glimmer of opportunity—and I made sure to seize it.
The next morning, I hurriedly dress. Knowing my father, he isn't going to sit in his office waiting for Zasha to arrive. Instead, he will make him wait for at least five minutes, and that's all the time I have to present my proposal to Zasha.
I’m not supposed to be on this side of the estate except by invitation.
This area is strictly for business only.
Yet, no one questions me as I slip past the colonnade, my heels silent on the stone.
I’ve perfected the art of appearing innocent even when I’m doing something bold.
My guards hang back—trained to obey my father’s “don’t smother her” orders—but I know they’re watching.
However, their prying eyes do not deter me as I put my plans into motion.
The East Wing is quiet as I walk its halls, and I do my best to look unbothered. I know what it means to be seen with a man behind closed doors. I can’t afford whispers. Not with the kind of favor I’m about to ask.
Thankfully, I catch him just as he’s turning the corner at the far end of the hall—dark suit, clean lines, with black gloves on his hands. Zasha Petrov moves like a man who doesn't question the ground beneath his feet. He walks on it as though he owns it.
“Mr Petrov?”
He stops, mid-stride.
When he turns, his expression is unreadable—those sharp eyes assessing, the rest of him still as stone. “Mara?”
“I need a minute,” I say, stepping closer.
His gaze flicks down to the watch on his wrist, then back to me. “I have a meeting with your father in the next five minutes.”
“I know.” I don’t blink. “That’s why this won’t take long.”
“Alright then,” he says, giving me his full attention.
I lower my voice and square my shoulders. “I have a proposal.”
That captures his attention. He remains still, without blinking, and his facial expression stays unchanged. The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming, and for a brief moment, I almost lose the courage to recite the lines of my carefully crafted speech.
I lick my lips and just let go. “I am in a desperate position and would like your help.” I say pleading with my eyes, “I want us to marry.”
There it is. I’ve dropped the grenade straight into the silence between us and wait for the explosion. But it doesn’t come.
Zasha doesn’t react. No flinch. No raised brow. Just silence. Then, slowly, he folds his arms across his chest and studies me like I’m a chessboard and he’s searching for the trap I’ve set.
“Why?” he asks simply.
I meet his gaze squarely, letting him see how much I want this. “Because it benefits both of us.”
“Does it?”
I nod. “You know what my father wants more than anything. An alliance with your Bratva. A permanent one. He's tried twice and failed. First with Viktor. Then with Viktor’s sister. A marriage between you and me would give him exactly what he's been chasing for years.”
His expression doesn’t change. “That explains his benefit. What’s yours?”
My fingers tremble slightly. “Freedom.”
“Freedom?” he echoes, like it’s a foreign word. His eyes narrow slightly. “From who?”
And just like that, my speech unlocks.
“From what’s expected of me. From being passed around like a well-dressed token.
From smiling at banquets and pretending I care about the man sitting beside me because my father thinks he’d make a good husband.
I’ve played the roles expected of me my whole life.
Dutiful daughter. Perfect princess. But I want more than that.
I want to see the world. Live on my own terms. But I know I’ll never get that chance if my father shackles me with marriage.
This arrangement gives everyone what they want.
My father gets his alliance. Your family strengthens its position. And I get an expiration date.”
He tilts his head, still silent. Still observing.
“One year,” I add, my voice softer now. “Twelve months. And then we end it. Quietly. Cleanly. No scandal.”
Zasha’s jaw tightens. “You think your father will be happy with me after I divorce you?”
“I’ve considered that,” I say. “He won’t blame you. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll be the difficult one, and I’ll make sure the story that reaches my father paints me as impossible to live with. He’ll believe it. He always worries I’m too strong-willed.”
Zasha raises an eyebrow. “So, you think this is a game?”
“No.” My voice is firm. “I think this is a solution.”
He stares at me long and hard, as if trying to see beneath my skin. “And if I say no?”
“If you say no,” I say, “then I’ll do what’s expected. I’ll smile through an engagement I didn’t want. I’ll marry someone my father chooses—a man who’ll see me as a prize, not a partner. Someone who’ll use me to get close to him, and then control me to keep that power.”
Zasha’s stare doesn’t waver.
“But if you say yes,” I continue, my voice soft but unwavering, “you won’t just be doing me a favor.
You’ll be making a move that shifts the power in our entire world.
You’ll give my father what he wants. You’ll become untouchable in this house.
And for twelve months, I’ll owe you a debt I could never repay. ”
He doesn’t blink. He just looks at me—and this time, he really looks.
Something shifts in his expression. A quiet pause. A flicker of something just beneath the surface, like he hadn’t expected me to speak with such clarity, with such brutal honesty.
I don’t flinch. I let him see all of it—my frustration, my weariness, my calculated boldness wrapped around a desperate hope. I hold his gaze like it’s my only anchor in a world constantly spinning out of my control.
And for a second, just a second, I feel like maybe—I’ve got him listening not just with his ears but his mind too.
It’s small—just a flicker of something behind his eyes—but it’s there. A shift.
So, I press forward.
“My father won’t hesitate to pair me with someone else. Someone less intelligent. Less strategic. Someone who’ll want a real wife and children and the power that comes with being in my father’s inner circle. This arrangement keeps all of that at bay. It also keeps you free and keeps me safe.”
He exhales through his nose and looks away for the first time. The firelight flickers across his sharp profile. There’s a storm in his silence, one I can’t name.
“Keeps me free?”
“Yes,” I nod. “Free from marriage.”
“And what makes you think I do not want a real wife and children?
“Because you are what….forty? and still unmarried.”
He stares at me for a moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, but no less lethal. “Do you know what happens to women who marry men like me, Mara?”
I meet his eyes without flinching. “Yes.”
He studies me. “Do you?”
“I know you’re not cruel,” I say. “I know you’re not careless. And I know you would never raise a hand to a woman. Especially not your wife.”
A beat passes. Then another. Zasha’s gaze lowers to his hands, flexing once before stilling.
“I’m not the type of man girls dream of,” he mutters.
“Good.” I smile slightly. “Because I’m not a girl. And I don’t dream.”
Another silence stretches between us, but it’s different now. Tense, yes, but alive. I can feel him shifting. Calculating. And for the first time, considering.
Before he can answer, we hear footsteps approaching. Zasha straightens, his expression unreadable once again.
“Xiomara?” my father says, brows drawn low. “What are you doing here?”
I turn to him with a warm smile and kiss him on both cheeks. “I was looking for you,” I say smoothly, looping my arm through his without missing a beat. “I had a thought I wanted to run by you.”
His eyes flick from me to Zasha and back again, lingering with suspicion—but he doesn’t press. Not yet.
Behind me, Zasha says nothing.