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“Maybe he had you measured while you slept on the plane,” Talon suggests, only half-joking.

A chill runs through me at the thought. I shake my head and cross the room to where my bag sits on an antique writing desk. I need to focus on something I can control.

Opening the bag, I find The Collector's tablet exactly where I left it nestled. My fingers tremble slightly as I power it on, the screen casting an eerie blue glow across my face. I pull up the message I sent from the jet's bathroom, checking for any response.

Nothing. The screen remains stubbornly empty of notifications.

“He hasn't replied.” A knot of unease tightens in my stomach. My grandfather is many things, but negligent isn't one of them. His silence is deliberate.

“Maybe that's a good thing,” Talon says, moving closer to look over my shoulder. “Gives us more time to maneuver.”

A sharp knock at the door makes us both freeze.

“Miss Rossi?” A voice calls from the corridor. “Mr. Petrov requests your presence for dinner in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” I call back, smoothing the midnight blue fabric of my dress. “Please inform him I'll be there shortly.”

Heavy footsteps retreat down the hallway as I turn to Talon, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Let's not keep our host waiting.” I run my fingers through my damp hair, arranging it into loose waves that cascade down my back. “How do I look?”

“Like a queen walking into battle.”

I lift my chin despite the gaudy mass of jewels around my neck. “Then let's go to war.”

The halls of Victor's palace stretch before us like a labyrinth, each corridor more opulent than the last. Talon offers his arm, a silent support as we follow a guard whose expression remains unreadable. My heels click against the marble floors, the sound echoing through the vast, gilded spaces.

We descend a grand staircase, the steps wide and shallow, forcing a measured pace that feels ceremonial. At the bottom, a woman in a crisp uniform awaits.

“This way to the dining room, Miss Rossi,” she says, her accent thick.

The dining hall materializes behind massive double doors. A cavernous space dominated by a table that could seat thirty but is set for only six. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across gilded surfaces, illuminating priceless artwork and tapestries that line the walls. Victor stands at the far end, resplendent in evening attire.

Victor notices me the second I enter. A smile curves his lips as he strides toward us with the confidence of a man who's never questioned his own power.

“Vesper.” My name rolls off his tongue with a familiar ease that makes my skin crawl. “You look exquisite.”

Before I can respond, he's beside me, his fingers closing around my wrist as he detaches me from Talon's arm with smooth efficiency. The gesture is subtle but unmistakable—a transfer of possession.

“Come,” Victor guides me toward the head of the table, his hand at the small of my back. “You'll sit here, to my left. The position of highest honor for a guest in my home.”

I allow myself to be maneuvered into place, the heavy chair pulled out with a flourish by a waiting servant. Victor's hand lingers on my shoulder as I'm seated, his fingers tracing the edge of the necklace he provided, branding me.

Talon moves to take up his position along the wall, his expression carefully neutral as he surveys the room.

“Mr. St. James,” Victor calls, not bothering to look in Talon's direction as he takes his own seat at the head of the table. “That won't be necessary. Join us.” He gestures to the chair directly next to mine.

Talon hesitates for just a heartbeat before acquiescing, taking the offered.

The massive doors at the far end of the dining hall swing open again, and my breath catches as Oscar and Zaire enter. They've been transformed. are their travel-worn clothes, replaced by impeccably tailored suits that highlight the elegance of their Petrov heritage.

“Ah, my nephews. How kind of you to join us.”

Oscar moves with fluid grace to take the seat directly across from Talon. His lips form a silent question—Okay? I give him analmost imperceptible nod, hoping my expression conveys more confidence than I feel.

Z takes the remaining seat beside his brother, his posture deceptively relaxed, though I can see the tension in his body. The family resemblance between the three Petrov men is striking in this setting.

“Drinks?” Victor gestures to a servant. “The Petrov Reserve, bottled on the day of my grandson's birth.”