Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ANYA
I meet Konstantin at a lounge he chooses. It sits high above the river, all glass and shadow and curated exclusivity. It smells faintly of aged whiskey and polished wood. His security lines the corridor outside. Ours mirrors them. The symmetry feels like a warning.
When I step inside, he is already waiting for me. He turns at the sound of the door closing, his expression arranged into something smooth and welcoming. “Anastasiya.” He says my name like it still belongs to a future he assumes is intact.
“Konstantin.” I remain standing.
He gestures toward the seating area. “Please.”
I sit first and he follows a beat later, folding himself into the chair opposite me with careful composure. “I was relieved when I heard you were recovered,” he begins. “The reports were troubling.”
“Being abducted tends to generate those.”
His mouth tightens slightly. “You were not harmed.”
For a second, I wonder if he actually believes that.
I hold his gaze and let the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.
“I was beaten,” I say evenly. “I was chained to a concrete floor. I was found bloody and bruised in the back of a warehouse.” The words do not shake.
My pulse does, but my voice does not. “Do not rewrite what happened to me to make yourself more comfortable.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Irritation. Calculation. Maybe even guilt. It is gone before I can pin it down. “You believe I had something to do with it,” he says finally.
“I believe Volkov did not act without confidence.”
“Volkov was reckless,” Konstantin replies dismissively. “Reckless men overestimate their leverage.”
“He is dead,” I say. “Reckless men rarely move alone.”
His fingers curl against the armrest. “You think I sanctioned your kidnapping.”
“I think,” I reply, “that in our world, men do not move without understanding who benefits.”
His expression hardens. “You are accusing me.”
“I am asking you,” I say. “How does me being beaten and dragged across concrete benefit you, Konstantin?” The question hangs there between us, hard and unavoidable.
“That is absurd,” he snaps, the polish cracking. “Explain to me, Anastasiya, how you being taken would benefit me.”
His anger is no longer hidden. It flashes hot and sharp in his eyes.
I do not flinch. “You tell me,” I say calmly.
He leans forward, voice lowering but losing none of its intensity.
“If you are harmed, the alliance destabilizes. If you disappear, speculation erupts. If you die, our families go to war. Where is the benefit in that?” His jaw tightens hard enough that I see the muscle jump.
“You assume I would gamble years of planning on theatrics in a parking lot?” he demands. “You think I am that careless?”
“I think men in our world use fear as leverage,” I reply. “You have done so before.”
“With rivals,” he says sharply. “Not with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are the alliance,” he says, temper flaring fully now. “You are the consolidation of power. You are stability. I do not sabotage my own strategy.”
The room feels smaller. “Then someone close to you miscalculated,” I say quietly.
His eyes blaze. “Do not imply there is a rat in my house.”
“Then explain how I, Anistasiya Dragunov, was taken.”
He pushes to his feet so abruptly the chair scrapes against the floor.
He paces once, controlled but visibly agitated, then stops in front of the window with his back to me.
The city glows behind the glass, his reflection faint but rigid.
“You are safe within our engagement,” he says tightly.
“Within the alliance. As my future wife.”
I stare at him. “Safe?” I repeat. “I was beaten. I was chained to a concrete floor.”
His shoulders tense. “As long as our families are publicly aligned, you are protected,” he continues. “No one would dare move against you because it would mean war.”
“And yet they did,” I say.
He turns sharply, the last of his restraint snapping.
“Because you stepped outside of it,” he says, frustration breaking clean through his control.
“Because you distanced yourself from the very structure designed to shield you.” His eyes flash, no longer diplomatic.
“You dismissed your assigned security,” he continues.
“You insisted on independence. You walked away from the protection that comes with our engagement.”
I rise slowly to my feet. “You are the one who ditched your security like a petulant child,” he adds, the insult deliberate now. “And you are surprised someone exploited that vulnerability?” The room feels smaller. “I was not a child,” I say evenly. “I was reclaiming autonomy.”
“You were reckless,” he shoots back. “You do not get to reject the alliance and still expect the benefits of it.”
“I didn’t reject the alliance, Konstantin.” The words leave my mouth steady, but my pulse is anything but.
He laughs. It is low and edged with something that scrapes. “Is that what you tell yourself?” he asks.
“I have honored every public obligation,” I reply. “Every appearance. Every formal dinner and family event.”
He steps closer, invading space without touching me.
“Then explain something to me, Printsessa,” he says quietly.
“Why haven’t you set a date?” My jaw tightens, but I don’t answer.
“You graduated university a year ago,” he continues.
“You have no academic obligations. No professional conflicts. And yet every time our families suggest finalizing the ceremony, there is another delay.” His eyes lock on mine.
“You claim loyalty to the alliance, but you postpone it at every turn.”
“I have not postponed it,” I say. “I have asked for time.”
“For what?” he demands. “Clarity? Or escape?”
“I wanted to ensure the transition was strategic,” I answer evenly.
His mouth curves into something darker. “You make excuses not to meet with me,” he says. “You shorten visits. You cancel private dinners. You insist on bringing chaperones to conversations that do not require them.”
“I am cautious.”
“You are avoiding me.” He exhales sharply. “You have been distancing yourself for a year, Anastasiya. Do not pretend this is sudden.”
“I have been ensuring I am not reduced to a signature on a contract.”
“You are not reduced,” he snaps. “You are elevated above everyone.”
“As whose equal?” I ask.
He does not answer immediately, instead, he studies me like a problem he thought he had already solved. “You were raised for this,” he says finally.
“I was raised to understand it,” I reply. “That does not mean I consent blindly.”
His eyes darken. “You think you can stand alone in this world?” he asks. “Without alliance?”
“I think,” I say quietly, “that an alliance built on coercion is already fractured.”
His expression hardens again, but beneath it I see something else now.
He knows I have been pulling away. He has known for months.
He just never believed I would say it out loud.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice settling into something cold and deliberate, “you will attend the gala with me.” He holds my gaze as if daring me to challenge him.
“You will stand at my side. You will act like the perfect fiancée. No theatrics. No defiance.”
My spine goes rigid, but I do not give him the satisfaction of reaction.
“We will announce a wedding date,” he continues.
“Publicly. Clearly. We will end speculation.” His jaw tightens.
“And that will be the end of this… hesitation.” He steps forward before I can move away.
His hands close around my arms, fingers firm, anchoring me in place.
Not violent. Not yet. But unmistakably possessive.
“You have had your year,” he says quietly, looking down at me.
“You have tested the boundaries enough.”
When he leans in to kiss me, I turn my head.
His mouth catches my cheek instead. The kiss is forceful, not affectionate.
His breath is hot against my skin as he presses there for a second too long.
His grip tightens for half a second before he lets go, as if he has to physically stop himself from shaking sense into me.
“I will not be managed,” I say.
He stares down at me, breathing hard through his nose. “Managed?” he echoes, incredulous. “You mistake structure for control.”
“You mistake ownership for partnership.”
His expression turns glacial. “You think this is about possession?” he asks quietly. “This is about power. Stability. Legacy. Things you were raised to understand.”
“I understand them perfectly.”
“Clearly not,” he snaps. “Because you are behaving like a spoiled girl who believes independence is the same thing as immunity. You are being reckless,” he continues, anger bleeding through his composure. “You jeopardize two families because you want to feel autonomous.”
“I jeopardize nothing,” I reply. “I refuse to be leveraged.”
His jaw clenches. “You will attend tomorrow,” he says flatly. “You will stand beside me. And you will remember what is at stake.”
“I will attend,” I answer evenly. “But I will not pretend.”
Something shifts in his eyes then. “You think this American makes you strong,” he says quietly. “He makes you exposed.”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“It has everything to do with him,” Konstantin snaps. “You have forgotten where you belong.”
“I do not belong to you.”
The words land between us like a strike.
For a moment, he just looks at me. Really looks at me.
As if measuring how far gone I am. Then his face closes off completely.
“You are making a mistake,” he says, voice flat and controlled in a way that feels far more dangerous than shouting.
“And when the consequences arrive, do not pretend you were not warned.” He turns sharply, yanking the door open with more force than necessary.
“Tomorrow,” he throws over his shoulder, “you will remember who you are.” The door slams behind him and the room goes silent.