6. Katerina
KATERINA
Days later, I’m hauled into Aleksandr’s office without warning.
There’s no explanation as to why they’re there, just the sudden appearance of two guards outside my door early in the morning, their expressions polite but unyielding. It doesn’t escape me that this is clearly not any kind of polite invitation but a request with only one outcome.
They flank me as we walk, one on each side of me. Their hands settle on my arms in a hold that, while not tight enough to bruise, is unmistakably firm. A subtle reminder that I am being escorted, not accompanied.
It’s almost insulting, actually. Even if I wanted to bolt down the corridor like a startled animal, where would I go? The absurdity of it burns beneath my skin.
When we arrive at Aleksandr’s office, the door to it is pulled open. I’m ushered inside before it shuts behind me.
The room smells faintly of smoke, the scent drifting warmly from somewhere near the hearth.
The windows behind his desk are tall, filtering the morning light into muted slashes across the floor.
This space feels less like an office and more like a throne room disguised as one.
A place where decisions are handed down, not discussed.
Aleksandr is already seated behind his desk.
One arm is draped over the armrest like he’s lounging in his living room instead of holding court.
The fingers of his other hand tap lazily against the polished wood in a soft, steady rhythm.
The sound shouldn’t bother me. It’s quiet, almost barely audible.
But somehow, it grates on my nerves with the same effect as everything else he does.
His expression is neutral, unreadable in a way that borders on unnatural for him. I’ve grown accustomed to the faint curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth, the condescension disguised as charm and the glint of wickedness sparking in his eyes that always accompanies it.
This blankness is worse. It tells me nothing, and that is precisely what makes it terrifying.
He nods toward the desk, the movement small but unmistakably directive—a command disguised as a gesture.
My eyes drop to the surface instantly. In front of him sits a neat stack of papers perfectly aligned.
They’re arranged with the kind of precision that suggests someone either obsessively meticulous or ruthlessly controlled laid them out.
Given whose desk this is, probably both.
I step forward then. “What is this?”
“Sign these,” he says simply. That’s it. No other explanation follows.
Suspicion crawls up my spine like a cold hand.
I reach for the papers, flipping through the top few.
The pages are thick, printed on high-quality stock, because of course they are, and filled with dense legal language that makes my head spin the longer I look.
Clauses, subsections, provisions—all written in careful, suffocating detail.
It takes longer than I’d like before I understand exactly what I’m looking at.
A marriage contract.
My stomach drops.
Not because I didn’t expect this. Of course I did.
This entire arrangement has been marching toward a legal tether from the moment I arrived.
The inevitability of it has hung above me like a guillotine, swaying silently over every morning I woke in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a house that wasn’t my own childhood one, surrounded by people who don’t know the real me and never will.
Before this moment, I could simply pretend I was merely a guest in Aleksandr’s home, a temporary presence that would be extracted before anything serious happened.
I could pretend my role in this was still distant enough that I hadn’t yet been forced to step across a line that wouldn’t be able to be easily undone.
This is a declaration that I will no longer simply occupy space in his home because he allows it… I will be here because I am legally attached to him. Owned in every sense that matters to men like Aleksandr Volkov.
I inhale through my nose, forcing my fingers not to tremble as I pick up the pen placed neatly next to the documents.
There’s no sense in backing out now. I am supposed to be portraying a submissive, dutiful wife who doesn’t question or push back against the hand that wants to claim her.
Doing anything else but signing the papers would rouse his suspicion of me more than my actions before today already have.
The pen glides too smoothly as I move it across the thick pages, the ink drying far too quickly for my liking. But just like that, I’ve officially stepped over a threshold I can never return from.
When I look up, Aleksandr is watching me with mild surprise flickering across his expression, his first genuine reaction since I entered the room.
“Huh,” he says, faint amusement edging his voice. “I assumed you’d put up more of a fight before resigning yourself to becoming my housewife. Especially after the other night.”
My housewife.
The implication makes my eye twitch. Reducing me down to a decorative extension of his empire with nothing but a few signatures makes my blood boil.
I know why I’m here. I know the mission. I know the role I’m supposed to play. Eventually, I am meant to coax this man into trusting me and become the soft presence he lets his guard down around. To make him lean on me, confide in me, and hand me the very secrets I will later use to bury him.
I know all of that with clear certainty.
But fuck, does it still piss me off how easily men like Aleksandr Volkov walk through this world.
Whatever they demand, they get. Whether that be territory, money, power, a woman to warm their bed.
With a snap of their fingers, the people around them bend over backward to accommodate any request, no matter how outrageous or cruel or selfish.
They smile while doing it. Maybe even thank them afterward.
Here I am, a pawn disguised as a bride because Aleksandr Volkov decided he wanted one.
From his perspective, it was effortless.
He wanted a wife, so he simply contacted someone in his orbit who happened to have a daughter shaped to his preferences—educated, well-mannered, politically appealing, pretty, easy to deal with—and demanded she be handed over without question.
The only sliver of control in this entire grotesque arrangement is that my father had the foresight to use Volkov’s demand against him. To turn this acquisition into an infiltration and make Aleksandr’s entitlement the very weapon that will be used to undo him.
But that knowledge doesn’t soothe the rage simmering beneath my skin. It doesn’t make the humiliation sting any less or erase the fact that to Aleksandr Volkov, obtaining a wife was as effortless as acquiring a new car or a piece of land.
He wanted me, so he took me. That’s it.
I hate how easily the world allows men like him to do exactly as they please with no consequences.
I slam the pen down hard on top of his desk. The words are out before I can stop them, hot with unfiltered irritation slicing through every layer of my carefully constructed composure.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Oh, fuck.
Goddamn it.
How is he able to so easily get a rise out of me?
His mouth twitches just enough to betray the amusement he’s trying and failing to hide. He’s entertained. Of course he is. All of this is just one big game to him that he’s clearly winning. “Flatter myself?” he repeats. “I assure you, I rarely require assistance in that department.”
The arrogance drips from every syllable. Heat crawls up my neck, though not from embarrassment, exactly, but fury tightening beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
I hate this.
I hate that he’s enjoying himself because I’m giving him exactly what he wants—proof that he can provoke me at will.
That my reactions aren’t under my control like I’m pretending they are.
He wants to see me break composure, wants to watch my mask slip and give him the confirmation that beneath all my restraint, I’m still volatile enough to fight back just like I did that very first day.
He leans back slightly in his chair, studying me with a kind of pleased curiosity as though I’m a puzzle piece snapping back into place exactly where he predicted it would.
I straighten, forcing my expression back into the opposite of what he just pulled out of me. “Forgive me… I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy satisfaction.
This bastard is delighted.
I force myself to breathe. This means nothing.
This marriage, this entire arrangement, is nothing more than a weapon that will be used to crack apart his entire empire until the whole rotten structure collapses beneath him.
Once this is over and Aleksandr Volkov is either dead or dragged away in handcuffs under the consequences of his own brutality, I’ll walk free.
That will be the moment I find all of this worth it when I watch that smug delight wiped clean off his face as he’s shoved into the back of a police car, wrists bound with eyes seething with fury because he never saw it coming.
Getting upset now is pointless.
“Am I dismissed?” I ask, voice flat.
His brow twitches, irritation flickering briefly across his expression.
He doesn’t like losing control of the conversation when I step off the script he’s trying to write for me.
He drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, slow and thoughtful, before shifting his body and crossing one leg casually over the other.
The picture of boredom slowly settles over him. “I suppose. Later this week, you and I will head to a jeweler to get your finger sized. Can’t have you walking around without a ring. Men might assume you’re still available.”
My hands fist instantly at my sides.
The reaction is instinctive. His eyes flick down, and a slow smirk crawls onto his face once again as he savors the moment. I swallow hard, pressing the venom back down into my throat where it burns like acid.