Aria
The platinum band is cold. Heavy. It catches the lamplight, throwing a single, sharp spark of white against the wall. A star in my room. A brand.
My fingers curl into a fist, burying the diamond against my palm. If I can’t see it, maybe the oxygen will return to the room. It doesn’t. The metal bites into my skin—a perfect, unyielding circle.
I push off the bed. Three steps to the window. Three steps back to the door. The carpet is already matted down from where I’ve paced a trench over the last eight months. This room used to be the only place I could breathe. Now, the walls are closing in.
The sound of an engine cuts through the silence outside—low, powerful, crunching over the gravel of the drive.
He’s back.
I glance at the digital clock. Nine-fifteen. He’s been gone all day, leaving me to spiral from his proposal and the ring burning a hole in my hand.
Igor is offering everything. Stability. My own grandmother—the one whose memory is a warm, faded quilt on the worst nights—would tell me to be smart.
To protect myself. But she would also see the emptiness I hide behind scrubs and sweaters.
She would see the way I cling to Galina, soaking up affection like it’s the only water in my desert.
I stop pacing. My reflection in the dark windowpane stops with me. Navy blue scrubs. Hair slipping out of a messy bun. Eyes too wide, too dark.
I want you. Not just for this arrangement.
My stomach flips. That’s the dangerous part. The part that makes my knees weak and my throat tight. If I let him in—if I let that intensity touch the parts of me I keep locked up—I won’t survive him.
But hiding in this room won't change the answer. I roll my shoulders back. I’m doing this for Galina.
I press a palm to my belly, forcing a breath into my lungs, and head for the door.
The west wing is his territory. The air changes the moment I cross the threshold. It’s cooler here, smelling of lemon polish, old leather, and him—a crisp, sharp scent of expensive soap and night air.
The last door is ajar. A sliver of golden light cuts across the Persian runner.
I lift my hand and knock on the heavy wood.
“Enter.”
The command vibrates through the door. I push it open.
The library is pristine. Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold thousands of leather-bound volumes, but there is no dust here.
Everything in the Aslanov estate is maintained to an obsessive standard.
A massive mahogany desk dominates the center, gleaming under the warm light of a banker's lamp.
Igor stands by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The suit jacket is gone. He wears a black Henley that strains across the width of his shoulders; the sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms.
He turns.
His gaze snares me. He catalogs me in a second—the rumpled scrubs, the bare feet, the way I’m gripping my left elbow to hide the ring.
“You wanted to see me.” He lifts the glass to his lips.
“You told me you wanted your answer today.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “I did.” He tips the glass toward the wingback chair. “Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
His eyes narrow. A challenge. He nods once, setting the glass on the corner of the desk. He leans back against the mahogany, crossing his arms. He is a coiled spring, static electricity humming in the air between us.
“Are you marrying me?”
I take a breath. Skydive off the cliff. “I am.”
He nods—just a nod. Like, I didn't just sign away my life. I straighten my spine. “I have conditions.”
He arches a brow, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “They are?”
“I want to finish school.”
“Done.”
“I want independent access to my money. I don’t want to have to ask you for cash every time I need something.”
His eyes tighten at the corners. “You don’t trust me?”
“I’ve learned not to trust anyone.”
He stares at me for a beat, then gives a quick, jerky nod. “You’ll get a small deposit before the wedding to help pay for any arrangements. A larger deposit after. A no-limit credit card and a monthly allowance. All in your name. I cover the card. Fair?”
The numbers he lists make the room spin. I blink, trying to keep my face neutral. “Fair.” I swallow hard. “If this doesn’t work out… I want to be able to leave. Whenever I decide.”
“Nyet.”
The word is a slate wall dropping between us.
“But, I—”
“You are twenty-two. This is likely your first real relationship.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I won’t have my wife storming out because I left the toilet seat up, or left clothes on the floor.”
“I wouldn’t leave over that.”
“But I don’t know that, do I?”
My jaw clenches. “You don’t trust me?”
He doesn’t answer. He just arches a brow, letting the silence stretch until the irony lands.
Reflexively, I cross my arms. “Fine. Anything else?”
“When I ask a question, I expect the truth.”
“I will always give you the truth.” He doesn't blink. “When I can. In my world, silence is sometimes safety. But I will never lie to you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “And what is your world? Exactly?”
“It’s complicated.”
He moves toward me. Fluid. Silent. He stops two feet away, and I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. The space between us feels charged, heavy.
“My family is not in the mafia,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “We are not a syndicate. ‘Bratva’ is a word outsiders use for things they don’t understand. We are a family with… interests. We enforce our own contracts. We handle our own problems.”
“Handle them how?” The whisper scrapes my throat.
“Efficiently. Quietly. Permanently.”
My blood runs cold. I don’t need a diagram. People who cross the Aslanovs don’t get served with lawsuits. They get erased. “You said you have enemies.” I force the words out.
“Every powerful family has rivals. But they are not your concern.” He steps closer, invading my space. “No one will ever touch you. I gave you my word. That is absolute.”
The certainty in his voice should be comforting. Instead, it feels like the door of a cage locking into place. A gold-plated, velvet-lined cage. “And my role?” I ask. “Besides caring for Galina?”
“You will be my wife. You will be an Aslanov. You attend functions. You host dinners. You smile and look at me like I hung the moon.”
“Pretending.”
“There will be no pretending in my bed, Aria.”
The air leaves the room.
He takes the final step. I’m trapped between the solid wood of the door and the heat radiating off him. He lifts a hand, knuckles grazing my cheek. His skin is rough, warm. My lungs seize. All I can smell is him—soap, scotch, and danger.
“I haven’t said yes,” I stammer.
“Haven’t you?”
His gaze drops to my stomach, where my hand is still tucked. He takes my wrist. His grip is firm—not painful, but inescapable. He pulls my hand free, uncurling my fingers one by one.
The diamond flares under the overhead light. He’s right. I put it on. I kept it on. My shoulders slump. The fight drains out of my legs. “Yes.” The whisper hangs in the silence.
A muscle feathers in his jaw. He doesn't gloat. He lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the ring. His eyes never leave mine. It’s not romantic. It’s feudal. A king branding his acquisition.
“Good.” His voice is gravel.
The next seven days are a blur of motion.
Dressmakers invade the guest suite. Pins scratch my skin. Tape measures snap. Turn. Lift. Hold still. I’m a mannequin being draped in silk and lace. I am being packaged for consumption.
I can’t find a foothold. The world is spinning too fast.
I find Galina in the sunroom. It’s the only place the chaos hasn't touched. I sit staring at my hands while she chatters happily about the flower arrangements.
“I always knew,” she says, beaming at the garden. “From the moment you walked in, dochka. You and Igor… it is fate. Two souls perfectly matched. I have never seen him so determined. He will make you so happy.”
The guilt twists in my gut like a knife. I hate lying. I hate that she thinks this is a fairy tale when it’s just a merger. “Galina,” I interrupt, my voice trembling. “I… I have to tell you. I don't love him.”
She doesn't gasp. His grandmother doesn't frown. She turns that sharp gaze on me and smiles, completely unbothered.
“You will.” She pats my hand. “Love is a luxury. Respect. Compatibility. These are the stones you build a house on. Love is the ivy that grows later.”
“It feels wrong.”
“Nonsense. You have fire. He has ice. You balance the scales.” Her grip tightens on my fingers. “I see how he looks at you. The love will come. And when it does, it will be dangerous.”
Igor is a ghost.
He comes home long after everyone is asleep. He’s gone before the sun comes up. When we have to be in the same room for the lawyers, he stands by the window, staring out, speaking in monosyllables. The distance chafes. After the heat in his study, the ice is worse. It’s a cold rejection.
Two nights before the wedding, I step in front of him in the hallway. “Why are you ignoring me?” My voice rises. “You forced this. And now you won’t look at me?”
He stops. He looks down at me, his eyes hooded. “Is that what you want?” he murmurs. “You want me to stop ignoring you?”
“Yes. I—” He doesn't let me finish. His hand tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck, and he crashes his mouth down on mine. It’s not a kiss. It’s an ambush.
He devours me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting of coffee and dark desire.
I stumble back, hitting the wall, and he presses into me, his hips grinding against mine.
His hands roam wild—down my back, gripping my waist, then sliding up under the hem of my scrub top.
Rough calloused palms find the bare skin of my stomach.
I gasp into his mouth. His fingers skim higher, pushing up the bra, cupping my breast. His thumb grazes the nipple, sending a bolt of lightning straight to my core.
“Igor,” I pant, panic warring with the pleasure. “Stop—wait—”
He freezes.
His hand is still on my breast, his heart hammering against my chest. He pulls back slowly, his eyes black, blown wide with a hunger that terrifies me.
He smooths my shirt down, his hands lingering for a second too long.
“That,” he says, his voice a wrecked growl, “is why I stay away. Because next time, I won't stop.”
He steps back, running a hand through his hair. “Enjoy the reprieve, Aria. As for right now, I have business to finish and a hard cock to finish off in the shower like a fucking school boy. So excuse me if I stay away.”
He turns on his heel and walks down the hall.
I’m left shivering in the drafty corridor, skin flushed, knees shaking, watching him go.
Then, the day arrives. No church. No aisle.
Just the library, the staff, and Galina in her wheelchair.
The lace of my dress scratches my neck. Igor stands next to me in charcoal gray, a wall of stone.
We say the vows. I sign the paper. The ring slides back onto my finger. Heavier this time. Permanent.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The words fall like a gavel strike.