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“I want Luca and Alex there, too.”

His smile vanishes instantly. “They’re freed after you kill Victor. You know what our arrangement is, granddaughter.”

“And you’ve not sent me my proof of life today. You have not honored your side of the arrangement.”

“You question my honor?”

“I question everything about you,” I reply without hesitation. "Bring them tomorrow, unharmed, or Victor will know you are still alive. I'll make sure the world knows Mikhail Vasilyev is still alive. I’ll tell every family you’ve robbed of their children what you’ve done. If you give me what I want, you’ll have your Russian seat before sundown. You wanted me to be strong, grandfather. Reap the fruit of your efforts.”

“Very well,” he finally concedes, the words seemingly dragged from him. “Your brother and his companion will attend.”

“How generous of you.”

“But know this, Vesper, if you don’t kill Victor, I will execute them in front of you.” The call ends abruptly. The screen dimming.

VESPER

Sleep refuses to come,chased away by the phantom ache of Dmitri’s fingers bruising my wrist, the memory of his calculated stillness as he stood between my forcibly spread legs. Every time I blink, his face flashes behind my lids. The gun tucked beneath my pillow offers hollow comfort against the ghosts that linger in the shadows.

By the time pale gray light filters through the curtains, I’ve memorized every crack in the ceiling, every swirl in the molding.The bruises on my wrist have deepened to an ugly purple—a bracelet of possession I can’t remove.

A sharp knock at the door makes me flinch.

"Enter," I call, my voice steadier than I feel as I slide the gun under my pillow.

The door swings open, revealing a procession of servants carrying silver trays laden with breakfast, garment bags, and an array of beauty products. They flood into my room, transforming the space into a bridal preparation chamber without a single word exchanged.

I'm whisked away from my bed, stripped of my nightgown, and subjected to their ministrations without so much as a “good morning.” Three women work on my hair simultaneously, tugging and pinning while another scrubs my face with cleansers.

“Too pale,” one mutters in Russian, slapping rouge onto my cheeks with enough force to sting.

“Hold still,” another commands as she lines my eyes with kohl, her breath hot against my face.

I remain silent, a living doll. My compliance is calculated—each moment bringing me closer to the endgame, to freedom. To my family.

When they finally unveil the dress, my breath catches. It's a monstrosity of satin and lace, dripping with crystals and pearls that must weigh ten pounds alone. The bodice is structured with visible boning, the neckline cut so low it borders on obscene.

“Arms up,” the head stylist orders, and I comply as they lower the massive creation over my head.

The adornments of crystals and pearls press against me, but the real torture begins as they lace the back. Each pull of the ribbons forces the air from my lungs, squeezing my ribs until breathing becomes a conscious effort.

“Tighter,” someone instructs, and I grip the bedpost as they cinch me further. “Mr. Petrov specified the waist measurement,” explains the head stylist, yanking the laces with brutal efficiency. “He wants perfection.”

Of course he does. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting blood as they secure the final knot.

“The veil,” announces a severe-looking woman, approaching with what appears to be a cloud of tulle and crystal. It descends over my elaborately styled hair, cascades down my back.

Through the shimmering veil, the world takes on a dreamlike quality, appropriate for this nightmare masquerading as a wedding day. They position me before a full-length mirror, stepping back to admire their handiwork.

The woman staring back at me is a stranger.

“Beautiful,” sighs one of the stylists. “Like a true Petrov bride.”

I want to tell her there's no such thing. Every Petrov bride is either a prisoner or a corpse. Sometimes both.

“The necklace,” the head stylist declares, approaching with a velvet box. “Mr. Petrov was most insistent.”

Inside rests a diamond collar even more elaborate than the one from yesterday. Three rows of flawless gems, culminating in a ruby pendant the size of a robin's egg. The symbolism isn't lost on me. Yesterday's necklace was a taste. This is the full leash.