Chapter 12 – Timofey
The Rusnak estate is unusually lively the night of the gala.
Under normal circumstances, I would treat this as what it is—another calculated gathering. Another show of power. Another night of alliances dressed up as celebration.
Nothing more.
Nothing personal.
But tonight….
Tonight is different.
Security has been doubled—no, tripled—after Anton’s little performance. Every entrance is monitored. Every guest vetted twice. Armed men are positioned where they can’t be seen, which means they’re exactly where they need to be.
No one is getting in here without me knowing.
And still…it doesn’t feel like enough.
Outside the window, I see the estate glow under carefully placed lights, the exterior polished to perfection. Luxury cars line the drive. Music drifts through the air, soft but deliberate. Controlled. Like everything else tonight.
In the garden outside, the atmosphere is sharp.
Laughter comes easily, but it doesn’t reach people’s eyes. Conversations are smooth, but every word is measured. Everyone here understands what this night really is.
A statement.
A warning.
The Rusnaks are not weak.
The Rusnaks are not afraid.
And more importantly, the Rusnaks are united.
I’m still in my bedroom, adjusting my cufflinks, when the door opens.
I don’t look up immediately. I should. But I don’t. It’s probably Misha, coming with updates on security.
Not until I feel it. A shift in the air.
Then I lift my gaze. And forget everything else. Valeria stands at the doorway.
For a second—just a second—my mind blanks.
Because whatever I expected…it wasn’t this.
Matteo outdid himself.
The dress isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
It’s controlled. Structured. Elegant in a way that doesn’t beg for attention—but commands it anyway. It traces her frame with precision, every line intentional, every detail calculated.
Strength disguised as beauty.
Or maybe the other way around.
Either way—
She owns it.
Completely.
And I don’t see a refugee. I don’t see a liability. I don’t even see a problem to solve. I see power. Standing in my doorway like it belongs there.
My gaze lingers longer than it should.
Long enough that I’m aware of it.
Long enough that she notices.
But I don’t look away.
I can’t.
Soft music drifts up from the garden below.
Faint. Elegant.
A reminder.
The gala.
The people waiting.
The war watching.
My jaw tightens slightly as reality crashes back. I straighten, adjusting my cuffs one last time before stepping toward her.
When I stop in front of her, the height difference feels…intentional.
Designed.
Like everything else about this situation.
I study her for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I say it.
“You look….” I pause, like I’m choosing the word carefully. “Striking.”
Her lips curve slightly at that.
It’s small—but real.
And I catch it.
Still, I don’t miss the tension beneath it.
The way her shoulders hold just a fraction too tight.
The way her breath isn’t entirely steady.
She’s calm. But nervous.
Before I can overthink it, I extend my hand again. “Dance with me.”
Her brows lift slightly, surprised. “Now?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes.
Then she places her hand in mine.
Soft. Warm.
Alive.
I pull her closer, my other hand settling at her waist as the faint music drifting up from the garden fills the room just enough to guide us.
We move slowly.
Deliberately.
No audience.
No pressure.
Just…this.
For once, the world outside the door doesn’t feel like it’s closing in.
For once, it’s quiet.
Her body relaxes slightly against mine as we fall into rhythm.
Not perfect.
Not practiced.
But natural.
I glance down at her.
“You nervous?” I ask.
She exhales softly. “Yes.”
Honest.
I nod once. “Good.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “Good?”
“If you weren’t, I’d be concerned.”
A faint huff of amusement leaves her.
We continue moving, slower now.
Closer.
The conversation drifts without force.
“You don’t like events like this,” she says after a moment.
It’s not a question.
“No,” I answer.
“Too many eyes?”
“Too many intentions,” I correct.
She nods slightly, like she understands exactly what I mean.
“Everyone will be watching tonight,” she says.
“They already are,” I reply.
Her fingers tighten slightly in mine. “And if something goes wrong?”
I stop just for a second—just enough to make her look up at me. “Then we handle it.”
Simple.
Certain.
She studies my face like she’s trying to decide if I actually believe that.
I don’t look away.
After a moment, she nods. We start moving again, slower this time, quieter.
“I’m still afraid,” she says suddenly.
The words are soft, but they land heavy. I don’t interrupt. I don’t rush to fill the silence. I just listen.
Her fingers tighten slightly against mine as she continues.
“Anton is getting closer. The messages…the attacks…it’s not slowing down. It’s getting worse. He won’t stop.”
I already know that. But hearing her say it makes it real in a different way. More personal. More dangerous.
I let a beat pass before I speak. Not to reassure her. Not to lie. But to understand.
“What do you want?”
The question shifts something. I feel it immediately in the way her body stills. In the way her head tilts slightly as she looks up at me. Because this isn’t about survival anymore. This is about choice.
There’s no hesitation.
“I want it back,” she says. Her voice is steady now. “My father’s throne. His empire. Everything he built.” Her gaze sharpens. “Anton doesn’t get to take that and rewrite history like it was always his.”
There’s fire in her now. Not fear. Not uncertainty. Fire.
“If I have to fight a war to get it back…” she continues, her voice dropping slightly, “then I will.”
Silence follows. But it’s not empty. It’s full of something heavier. Stronger. And I realize something in that moment, something I haven’t let myself acknowledge until now.
This isn’t just obligation anymore.
It’s not just about orders.
Or strategy.
Or protecting an asset.
I believe her.
In her strength.
In her conviction.
In the way she refuses to break, even when everything around her is trying to.
My hand at her waist tightens slightly. Not possessive. Not controlling. Certain.
“Then we take it back,” I say quietly.
Her eyes hold mine. Searching. Waiting. So I give her more. Not words dressed up to sound comforting. Not empty promises. Truth.
“Whatever happens next…” I add, my voice steady, “you won’t face it alone.”
Something shifts in her expression. Softens. And then, she smiles. It’s not sharp. Not guarded. Just…real. For a second, it almost doesn’t belong in a world like ours.
The music fades into a gentle stop, the last note lingering in the air between us. But neither of us moves immediately. We stay there. Close. Like stepping away would break something fragile that neither of us is ready to name.
Then, slowly, I let my hand fall away from her waist.
Distance returns.
Not much.
Just enough.
I straighten slightly and extend my arm, offering my elbow.
“Shall we?”
She looks at it for a second, then back at me. And then she giggles. Soft. Light. Unexpected. It catches me off guard. Because it’s the first time I’ve heard it.
And for a brief moment, it feels like something I want to hear again.
“Yes,” she says, slipping her hand around my arm.
And just like that, the moment ends. The doors open. And together, we walk back into the war.