Chapter 3
Kira
The ballroom looks like a beautiful lie.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Everywhere I look, there are flowers—white roses and lilies, because Roman insisted on traditional. On virginal.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucking insulting.
"The centerpieces need to be higher," Roman's event coordinator says, gesturing frantically at the staff.
"Madame Belsky wants them to make a statement."
Madame Belsky. Roman's mother, who died fifteen years ago.
He's talking about me.
My new title. My new identity. The cage I'm about to lock myself into.
I stand at the edge of the ballroom, watching the preparations unfold like a military operation. Because that's what this is—not a celebration, but a conquest. Roman's public declaration of victory over the Ice Queen who thought she could remain independent.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Roman appears at my elbow, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back. I resist the urge to flinch. "Tomorrow night, all of Moscow will see us together. United."
"Unified," I correct, keeping my voice neutral. "United implies choice."
His fingers press harder against my spine. A warning. "Careful, printsessa. People are watching."
I glance around the ballroom. He's right—staff, security, various members of his organization. All of them cataloging my every reaction, looking for weakness.
I smile. It doesn't reach my eyes, but it doesn't have to.
"Everything looks perfect," I say, loud enough to be heard. "You've outdone yourself."
The praise is bullshit, but it serves its purpose. Roman's grip loosens slightly, satisfied.
"Only the best for my bride." He guides me toward the seating chart spread across a nearby table. "I've made some adjustments to the arrangements. Put you next to me, of course. Your sister across from us where we can keep an eye on her."
Keep an eye on her. Like Anya is a threat instead of a nineteen-year-old girl who wants nothing to do with any of this.
"And my father?" I ask, scanning the chart.
"Here." Roman points to a seat far from the head table. Practically in the back corner. "I thought it best to seat him with the secondary families. Given his... history."
"He's still the head of the Markov family," I say carefully.
"Is he?" Roman's smile sharpens. "I was under the impression you've been running things for the past six years. In fact, I've already made the announcement that you're stepping down from operational duties. A wife shouldn't have to burden herself with such matters."
The words hit like ice water. "You did what?"
"Relax." His hand moves to my shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to hurt. "I'm taking over your portfolio. Your people will report to me now. It's cleaner this way. More efficient."
My people. The organization I built from nothing. The network of loyalties I cultivated.
He's taking it. All of it.
At least he thinks he is.
"We discussed this," I say, my voice dropping to something dangerous. "The terms were clear. My organization remains separate—"
"The terms were that you marry me and Anya goes to Paris." Roman cuts me off. "Which is exactly what's happening. Everything else is negotiable. I cannot have my wife running competing interests."
The rage that rises in me is volcanic, but I swallow it down. Force it into the frozen place where I keep all my weapons sharp and ready.
"Of course," I say sweetly. "How silly of me to think I had a voice in this."
"There's my smart girl." He kisses my temple, and I want to scrub my skin raw. "Now, let's discuss security. I've tripled the guards for tomorrow night."
The change in subject is jarring, but I follow it. "Expecting trouble?"
"Always." He leads me toward the entrance where men in black suits are coordinating. "Business rivals. People who don't like change. The usual threats."
"I'm sure your security is more than adequate," I say.
"It is. But I want you to stay close tomorrow night. Don't wander off alone." His eyes meet mine, and I see the warning there. "For your own safety, of course."
Of course. Because everything Roman does is for my own good.
I nod, playing the compliant fiancée. I only have to keep this up until Anya is safely tucked away in Paris. I’ve already made arrangements to have her disappear. She won’t be in Paris for long. Not as Anya. She’ll have a new name. New identity. I’ll get her away and no one will ever find her.
Two hours later, I arrive home once again.
I find my father in his study—where else—reviewing documents. Probably trying to figure out exactly how much money he can gamble away once I’m out of his way.
"Kira." He looks up, and I see the guilt flicker across his face. "How are the preparations?"
"Roman's taken over my organization." I close the door behind me. "Announced it without consultation. My people now report to him."
My father has the audacity to look confused. "Well, yes. That was always the plan, wasn't it? Unite the families under one leadership."
"My leadership," I snap. "I built that organization. Those are my people. My connections."
"And now they're Roman's. You're marrying into the Barinov bratva, Kira. This is how these things work."
"Not anymore.”
"You were never going to be equals," he says, almost gently. "Roman runs the most powerful organization in Moscow. We're smaller. This marriage elevates us."
We. As if he is anything.
"This marriage erases us." I straighten. "And you helped him do it."
"I helped secure our future—"
"You sold your daughters!" The rage breaks through. "And now you're sitting here justifying it while everything I built crumbles."
"It's not crumbling. It's being absorbed into something greater." He stands, trying for paternal authority. "You're too emotional to see it now, but this is for the best."
"Get out of your chair."
"Excuse me?"
"Your chair." I gesture to the desk. "The one I've let you keep out of respect. Get out of it. You don't deserve to sit there."
His face flushes. "This is my house—"
"That I paid for. You lost your seat when your gambling nearly destroyed us. I've been letting you pretend out of kindness. I’m still here. I’m not married yet. That is my rightful place."
"Kira, you're upset—"
"I'm done." I turn for the door.
I leave him standing there, small and diminished, and head upstairs to find Anya.
My anger has consumed me. I hate everything and everyone. I feel nothing except hatred. It’s consuming me from the inside out. Maybe it would be easier to just give up. I’ve proven my point.
I could disappear. Me and Anya. We could move to America and be free.
But it feels like quitting.
I can’t quit. I can’t give up. That hatred burning low in my belly demands I keep pushing.
Later, I find Anya is in her room, surrounded by half-packed suitcases and art supplies. The walls are covered with her paintings—beautiful, dreamlike scenes that have nothing to do with the brutal world we live in.
"Kira. I thought you were handling the party planning.”
"It’s done. How's the packing going?"
"It feels wrong. I'm escaping to Paris while you're stuck here, marrying a monster."
"You're not escaping. You're surviving." I take her hand. "That's all that matters."
"But what about you?" She squeezes my fingers. "Kira, I've been thinking—maybe we could both run. Just disappear. Roman can't find us if we're careful—"
"He would find us." I cut off that fantasy before it can take root. "And when he did, the punishment would be worse than anything he's planning now."
"So you're just giving up?"
"I'm being strategic." I meet her eyes. "There's a difference between surrender and tactical retreat."
"It’s dangerous."
"Everything in my life is dangerous."
"Can you tell me?" she asks. “Can I help you?”
"No." Because I won't make her complicit in what I'm planning. Won't give her nightmares about her sister committing murder. "All you need to know is that I'm going to handle this. You’ll be safe. I promise.”
"I don't want to be safe if it means leaving you in danger. You've protected me my whole life. Let me help protect you for once."
I sigh and shake my head. "You want to help? Then go to Paris. Paint beautiful things. Live the life I'm fighting to give you. That's how you protect me—by being everything this world didn't destroy."
Tears spill down her cheeks. "I hate this. I hate all of it."
"I know." I pull her into a hug. "But it's temporary. I promise you, this situation with Roman is temporary."
"When do I leave?" she asks.
"Next week. Before the wedding." Before Roman can change his mind and decide to keep her here as additional leverage. "You'll have everything you need—money, connections, a place to stay. And once you're settled, you'll send me pictures of every gallery and museum you visit."
"And you'll come visit," she says. "Once this is over. Once you're free."
"Once I'm free," I agree, though the concept of freedom feels impossibly distant.
We spend the next hour going through her things, deciding what to pack and what to leave behind. It feels like preparing for a funeral—severing ties with this life, this world, everything she's known.
But it's necessary. She has to get out before Roman's poison spreads to her too.
“What about Papa?” she asks. “What will happen to him?”
She loves him and I have to keep that in mind. “I don’t know. I won’t kill him.”
She laughs. “Well, I guess that is something.”
“It’s all I can promise,” I say. “I’m sorry, Anya. I know you love him.”
“And I know you’ve allowed me to love him because you’ve shielded me. You’ve protected me and lost everything.”
“Not everything. I have you.”
“Always.”
“Keep packing. I need to take care of some business.”
“Will I be at your party tomorrow?” she asks.
“No, Anya. I don’t want you anywhere near him or his people. Trust me, it isn’t a celebration. You will not be missing out on anything.”
Maksim