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"Not tonight, Lev,” I reply, my voice echoing in the empty room, sounding hollow and distant even to myself. The glow of the lamp casts long, solitary shadows across the walls. "I'm staying in."
Tonight, I’ll lock myself away with my ghosts and suffocating guilt. I’ll spend another evening imprisoned by memories that remind me why I must never allow myself to feel again. Tomorrow, I'll meet Kira Malakhov, this cloistered princess wrapped in billions and innocence. Does she know she’ll meet her doom in two days?
The city hums below, alive with secrets and sins. Somewhere out there, she's probably reading a book or painting her nails, blissfully unaware that her life is about to end and something else entirely is about to begin.
Something that will swallow her whole.
Chapter 2
Kira
The Hermès bags slip from my fingers as I catch the tremor in my mother's voice, their expensive contents forgotten against the marble floor of our penthouse foyer.
"Kira, darling." Mama's manicured fingers worry at her pearl necklace, a tell I've learned to read like storm clouds on the horizon. "Your father is waiting in his study."
The late afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the pristine white surfaces of our Manhattan sanctuary. Everything here is curated and controlled—from the fresh orchids that arrive daily to the way the light hits the Monet hanging in the hallway. But today, something feels different. The air itself seems to hum with an undercurrent I can't quite name.
"Is this about the London arrangements?" I ask, bending to retrieve a silk scarf that's escaped one of the bags. The fabric is cool against my palm, smooth as water. I've been looking forward to the move—Aunt Katya's stories of her life in Mayfair, the freedom of distance from Papa's watchful eyes, even the prospect of meeting Lord Charles Pemberton properly instead of through carefully orchestrated social encounters.
Mama's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "He'll explain everything, little dove. You know how he prefers to handle these matters himself."
The endearment sounds hollow in the vast space, echoing off the marble and glass. I study my mother's face—the same striking bone structure I inherited, though mine lacks the careful mask she's perfected over decades of being Anton Malakhov's wife. Her blue eyes, so like my own, dart toward the hallway leading to Papa's sanctuary.
"Mama." I step closer, catching the faint scent of her Chanel perfume mixed with something else—anxiety, sharp, and metallic. "What's wrong?"
She reaches out to smooth a strand of my auburn hair, her touch gentle but fleeting. "Nothing's wrong, Kira. Your father simply needs to discuss some changes to the timeline."
Changes. The word settles in my stomach like ice.
I nod, though unease prickles along my spine like static electricity before a storm. The marble beneath my feet feels suddenly cold, seeping through the thin soles of my Italian leather flats. I leave the scattered bags where they fell—somehow, they seem trivial now, these tokens of a life built on surfaces and appearances.
The walk to Papa's study feels longer than usual, each step echoing in the cathedral-like silence of our home. The Persian runner muffles my footsteps as I pass the gallery of family portraits—generations of Malakhovs staring down with eyes that have seen too much, survived too much. My own face looks back at me from the most recent addition, painted last spring when I still believed my biggest concern was choosing between graduate school in Oxford or Cambridge.
The heavy oak door stands slightly ajar, an unusual sight for Papa, who guards his privacy like a state secret.
"Papa?" I knock softly, pushing the door wider, and find him sitting alone at his desk with a glass of whiskey at his side. My father is not a man who requires liquid courage, so the half-finished decanter fills me with dread.
He looks up as I enter, and I'm startled by how much older he appears—the lines around his eyes deeper, his usually perfect posture slightly curved. The late afternoon light streaming through the windows behind him casts his face in shadow, making his expression unreadable.
"Sit, Kira." His voice carries that familiar authority, but underneath it, I detect something I've rarely heard from my father—uncertainty.
I settle into the leather chair across from his mahogany desk, the exact spot where I've received countless lectures about propriety, responsibility, and the weight of our family name.
"The London arrangements," I begin, hoping to steer this conversation toward familiar territory. "I know Charles is eager to formalize our engagement before the season begins. I've been reading about the proper protocols?—"
"There will be no London." Papa's words cut through my carefully prepared speech like a blade through silk. "And there will be no Charles Pemberton."
The room tilts slightly as if the floor beneath my chair has shifted. "I don't understand."
He reaches for his glass, taking a measured sip before meeting my eyes. "Your marriage has been arranged, but not to the man you expected."
Marriage? The word feels like a death sentence. I knew this day would come—it's the unspoken reality of being Anton Malakhov's daughter. But Charles was supposed to be safe and predictable. A British lord with old money and older manners, someone who would treat our union like the business arrangement it truly was.
"Who?" The question scrapes against my throat like broken glass.
Papa sets down his whiskey with deliberate care, the crystal making a soft clink against the wood that seems to echo in the sudden silence.
"Mikhail Zhukov."