Chapter 7 - Katya
The family’s packed into the Orlovs’ place tonight—a huge stone house right at the city’s edge. The lawns still have streaks of old snow, and someone’s wrapped the trees in lights like they’re trying to make winter less bleak.
Everyone showed up. Letvins, Sokolovs, Orlovs, even a handful of Zolotovs, acting like they’re not eavesdropping on every conversation.
The tables are piled with food nobody touches.
Vodka and top-shelf bourbon are always within reach.
Laughter pops up here and there, but it’s sharp, a little too deliberate.
I stick to Tatiana’s side at first. She’s in this stunning emerald dress that makes her eyes look unreal, hair pinned up, totally at home in the chaos.
Me? I’m in black. High neck, long sleeves, nothing flashy. I’m just trying to blend into the background and stay unnoticed.
Tikhon’s across the room, dark suit, no tie, top button undone. He’s deep in conversation with Nikolai Orlov and my brother, Agafon, like they go way back. Every few minutes, his eyes flick over to me. It’s quick, but I feel it like static on my skin.
I hate how much I notice him, how my nerves crackle when he moves, how my heart jumps when he laughs. I keep telling myself it’s just because we live together, like proximity is the whole story. That’s all.
Tatiana elbows me. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. And he’s looking back.”
I look away. “Let him.”
She groans. “You two are exhausting.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
I don’t answer. I just sip my champagne and pretend the bubbles are more interesting than they are.
An hour slips by. I sneak outside. The cold smacks me in the face, and honestly, it feels good.
It clears out the noise in my head. I head down the stone steps, hugging myself even though my coat’s thick.
Inside, recorded light piano music and voices blur together, but out here it’s just wind in the pines and gravel crunching under my heels.
I stop at the fountain. It’s off for the season, bowl empty except for some ice. I stare down—pale face, tired eyes, hair escaping the pins. I look worn out—not the kind that sleep fixes.
From inside, I hear Ilariy’s laugh, Arina teasing, and one of the Orlov cousins chiming in. Someone mentions the spring gala—talk of dates, desserts, and complaints about last year’s hotel pastries.
And then Tikhon, of course, jumps in. “I know someone who can handle it. Best pastries in the city.”
My stomach drops.
Seconds later, footsteps. I already know it’s him.
“Cold out here,” he says.
“I like it.”
He keeps his distance. “You disappeared.”
“I needed air.”
“Needed to get away from me,” he says.
I glance back. “That too.”
He lets out a breath, white in the air. “Fair.”
We stand there. It’s not exactly awkward, just heavy.
I spin around. “Don’t.”
He’s calm. “It’s just a suggestion.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I didn’t say your name.”
“You didn’t have to.” My voice shakes. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
He moves a bit closer. “Katya—”
“No.” I back up, hip hitting the fountain. “You think I don’t see it? You bring up pastries in front of my whole family—who still doesn’t know about my shop—and expect me to believe it’s nothing?”
“I wasn’t going to out you.”
“Then why mention it?”
“Because your macarons are perfect for the gala. I’ve tasted them. I know how good you are.”
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “So now you want credit for my work?”
“I just want your family to taste what you make,” he says, voice steady. “That’s it.”
I search his face. Waiting for the catch. I don’t see it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.
“You win,” I say, quietly. “If this is how you want to play, fine. I give up. Take whatever you want. Just keep my shop out of it.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not—”
I walk away before he can finish.
Inside, the heat feels suffocating. I weave through the crowd, fake a smile, nod, and say hello to people I barely know. Tatiana finds me by the bar.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to leave?”
“Soon.”
She squeezes my arm. “I’ll drive.”
I shake my head. “I came with him. I’ll leave with him. That’s how it works.”
She frowns, but lets it go.
Later, when the place has thinned out and everyone’s louder with vodka, Tikhon finds me in the hallway by the powder room. I’m leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting out the spinning in my skull.
He stops a few feet away. “Ready to go?”
“Yes.”
We don’t speak in the car. Snow falls harder now, headlights cutting through it. The heater hums. His hands are steady on the wheel.
When we pull into the garage, I don’t wait for him to open my door. I get out, slam it harder than necessary, and head inside.
He follows. Closes the door behind us. Locks it.
I stop in the foyer.
Turn.
“I meant what I said,” I tell him. “Whatever you want. Just leave the shop alone.”
He studies me. “You think that’s what this is about? Leverage?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He steps closer. Slow. “I want you to stop fighting me like I’m the enemy.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
I laugh again, sharp and tired. “You blackmailed me into marrying you. You moved me into your house. You track my car. You drop my shop into conversation with my brothers, as if it’s nothing. Explain to me how that doesn’t make you the enemy.”
He stands there, steady. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He gestures between us. “From anything that isn’t this. From your brothers, from the life they want to shove you into. From a war that never really stops.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get to decide what I need protecting from.”
“I’m not deciding. I’m asking.”
I stare him down. “No, you’re not. You’re just taking.”
He lets out a breath, drags a hand through his hair. For a second, he looks almost lost. “Maybe I am. But I’m not doing it to hurt you. I just can’t stand the idea of you leaving.”
My chest aches. “Why?”
His voice roughens. “You’re the first thing that’s felt real in years.
Not business, not power, not making another deal.
Just you. The way you glare at icing. How you hum when you work.
That look on your face when you tried your first cupcake, as if nothing else mattered.
I’ve been half-alive for too long, Katya. You woke me up.”
My heart is pounding so loud in my chest, I can barely hear myself whisper, “I don’t trust you.”
He nods. “I know.”
“But I’m tired of hating you.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches.
I step closer. Then again. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him.
“I’m not forgiving you,” I say.
“I’m not asking for that.”
“Then what do you want?”
He lifts a hand, slow, brushing a strand of hair off my cheek. His fingers linger there, gentle.
“A chance,” he says. “That’s it.”
I close my eyes, lean into his touch for just a second.
When I open them, he’s still there. Waiting.
I don’t kiss him. Not yet. But I don’t leave, either.
Finally, I turn and walk upstairs. He follows, but doesn’t crowd me.
At my bedroom door, I pause and look back.
“Goodnight, Tikhon,” she whispers. “Whatever you want. Just keep my shop out of your business.”
“Goodnight, Katya.”
I step inside and shut the door. Lean against it and listen as his footsteps fade down the hall.
My heart won’t slow down.
I slide to the floor, knees pulled up, and finally let the tears come. Quiet ones. Not anger. Not grief. Something softer. Something that scares me a little.
Maybe hope.
Or the start of it, anyway.
***
The night air is colder than I expected.
I step onto the balcony barefoot, the stone tiles biting into my soles like tiny frozen teeth. The French doors close behind me with a soft click, shutting out the warmth of the hallway, the faint scent of Tikhon’s cologne, and the echo of his voice still hanging in my ears.
I wrap my arms tight around my body—thin silk robe doing almost nothing against the wind that sweeps up from the gardens below. Goosebumps race across my arms, my legs, my chest. I don’t care. I need the cold.
I need something sharp to cut through the heat still burning under my skin.
The moon is high and nearly full, its silver light washing the entire estate in pale, ghostly beauty.
The gardens stretch out beneath me—perfectly manicured hedges, stone paths winding between rose bushes that have already shed most of their blooms to autumn, the fountain in the center turned off for the night.
Everything is still. Silent. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for me to decide what happens next.
I lean my hands on the iron railing, the metal cold enough to sting. My hair whips across my face in the wind; I don’t bother tucking it back. I just close my eyes and let the memory of the last five minutes flood in.
Tikhon standing in the hallway outside my door. Black shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with muscle and faint scars I’ve never asked about. Dark hair still slightly damp from the shower, curling at the ends.
Those green eyes—deep, forest-dark—locked on mine like I was the only thing in the universe that mattered. The way his jaw flexed when I said goodnight. The way his hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach for me.
And the look on his face when I closed the door.
God. That look.
It wasn’t anger. Wasn’t frustration. It was… yearning. Raw, unguarded yearning. Desire so thick it almost hurt to see.
His eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’d been about to speak and forgotten how. One hand lifted—half a motion toward the door—then fell back to his side.
Like he wanted to stop me. Like he wanted to follow me inside. Like he wanted to press me against the wall and kiss me until neither of us could breathe.
I open my eyes. My breath fogs in the cold air.
My body remembers.