Chapter 4 #2
The tension between the four men is visible, a physical thing that makes the air hum.
Boris is still clutching his wrist, casting dark looks at Mikhail.
Vladimir is watching his sons with pride and annoyance.
It’s clear that the Morozov brothers are aligned in ways their father clearly dislikes.
Mikhail doesn't look for his father's approval; he looks at Artyom. There’s a silent language between them—a loyalty that bypasses the Pakhan’s orders.
"The wedding will happen," Vladimir announces, his tone leaving no room for debate. "A small ceremony. We’ve already told the press it was a private elopement that was 'delayed' for family reasons. We will not be made fools of again."
"What?!" I gasp. "I’m not ready! I don't have?—"
"You’ll have whatever we tell you to have," Boris snaps, his voice still shaking with the remnants of his rage. He looks at Mikhail. "And I expect you to keep a tighter leash on her this time, Morozov. I won't have the Petrov name dragged through the mud because you can’t control your own bedroom."
Mikhail’s hand, which had been resting on the table, curls into a fist. He doesn't look at my father. He looks at Vladimir.
"I don't 'control' Irina," Mikhail says, his voice dangerously calm. "I own the contract. And as for the leash, Boris, I’d be careful. If I decide to let her go again, she might just come for you first."
Boris pales, but Vladimir just laughs, a dry, rattling sound. "He has fire, Boris. You have to admit that. He’s much more like me than Artyom is. He understands that a woman is a tool, not a partner."
I look at Artyom, expecting him to defend me, or at least to defend the idea of a partnership. But his eyes are fixed on Kira. He’s the Pakhan now, but he’s hamstrung by the old man’s lingering influence. He’s playing a long game, one that I don’t think includes saving me.
They’re all talking about me like I’m not even here.
Like I’m a piece of land being surveyed for a new development.
I want to scream. I want to flip this table and run back to the airport.
But Mikhail’s hand is on my thigh again, beneath the table.
His fingers are digging into my skin, a grounding pressure that is both a comfort and a threat.
"Irina and I will handle the preparations," Kira says, her voice breaking the heavy silence. She looks at me, her expression guarded but not unkind. "I’ve already contacted the designers. We can have everything ready by tomorrow."
"I don't want your help," I say, my stubbornness reaching a breaking point. "I don't want your designers, and I don't want your pity, Kira. You got your happy ending. Don't try to dress mine up like it’s anything other than a kidnapping."
Kira flinches slightly, but Artyom’s hand tightens on hers. "She’s trying to help you, Irina. Don't be a child."
"A child?" I stand up, the chair screeching against the floor. "I’ve been a child for twenty-five years! I’ve been told when to eat, what to wear, and who to marry!
I spent six months being a woman, and you dragged me back here to be a doll again!
You want the bridge? Fine. Take the bridge.
But don't expect me to thank you for the chains. "
I turn to leave, but Mikhail catches my wrist. He doesn't pull me back, but the intensity in his gaze stops me in my tracks.
"Sit down," he says. It’s not a command; it’s a warning.
"No."
We stare at each other, the sexual tension and the raw hostility between us creating a vacuum that sucks the air out of the room. He looks at me with a mixture of admiration and fury. He likes the bite. He likes the way I fight him. And that realization makes me even angrier.
"Irina," Mikhail says, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that only I can hear. "Don't make me carry you out of here in front of them. You’ve had your say. Now, sit down and let’s finish this."
I look at the fathers. I look at Artyom and Kira. And I realize that I am completely alone. The only person in this room who is even remotely on my side is the man who just kidnapped me, and he’s doing it for all the wrong reasons.
I sit back down, my spine stiff, my jaw tight.
"Good," Vladimir says, as if I’m a dog that just learned a new trick. "Now, Boris, let's discuss the Queens piers. Since the bride is back, the terms are back to the original agreement."
The men launch into a discussion of territory and percentages, their voices droning on like the buzzing of flies over a carcass. Kira watches me from across the table, her eyes filled with a sadness that I refuse to acknowledge.
She thinks she knows me. She thinks she understands what it’s like to be me. But she had a choice. She had Artyom’s love from the start. I have Mikhail’s obsession and my father’s hatred. We are not the same.
Mikhail’s hand is still on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles on my skin. The heat of him is overwhelming, distracting me from the boredom and the rage. I find myself leaning into his touch, my body traitorously seeking the only warmth in the room.
He notices. I can feel the change in his breathing, the way his body tenses. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear as he pretends to listen to the men.
"You're doing well, dorogaya ," he whispers, his voice a promise of fire. "Keep that fire. I'm going to need it when we're alone."
"You're never going to be alone with me," I hiss back.
"The wedding is in forty-eight hours, Irina. After that, we’ll have nothing but time."
He pulls back, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes. He knows he has me. He knows that no matter how much I fight, the walls of the cage are too high to climb.
But as I look around the table at the men who think they’ve won, I realize that they’ve made a fatal mistake.
They’ve brought the "Elena" back into the Morozov house. They’ve brought the girl who knows how to pick a lock, the girl who knows how to bribe a maid, and the girl who has absolutely nothing left to lose.
I look at Kira one last time, and for a split second, the envy vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.
You found your freedom in love, Kira, I’m going to find mine in the ashes of this alliance.