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I understand her better now—her fierce independence, her refusal to bend even in captivity. She's been fighting longer than I realized.

“And now?” I ask. “What does Igor think of your success?”

Her expression hardens at my question, a cloud passing over her face.

“He constantly tries to make amends.” She snorts, pulling the sheet tighter around her body. “Calls me. Sends expensive gifts that I return. Asks me to dinner at least once a month.”

I watch her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers clench the fabric. “And you go?”

“On occasion.” Her voice drops. “When guilt or loneliness override my better judgment.”

I remain silent, giving her space to continue. This is tactical information about Igor Lebedev, but more importantly, it's a window into her pain.

“And every single time, I regret it.” Katarina's eyes meet mine, wounded. “He starts with compliments and asks about my business like he's interested. Then the comments begin.”

She shifts beside me, her body radiating tension.

“'Your company could be ten times larger with my backing.' 'That security contract would have been yours if you'd used the Lebedev name.' 'You dress like you're ashamed of your body.'” Her voice turns hollow, mimicking her father's tone. “By dessert, he's usually telling me how I've wasted my potential becoming a 'glorified tech support' instead of embracing my birthright.”

My jaw tightens. I know men like Igor. Men who see their children as extensions of themselves rather than individuals.

“The last dinner was three months ago,” she continues. “He spent twenty minutes explaining how my refusal to marry into the Petrov family cost him a lucrative shipping route. Then dared to suggest I reconsider now that I'm 'getting older.'”

“What did you do?” I ask, already admiring her fortitude.

“Dumped my wine in his lap and walked out.” A small, bitter smile crosses her lips. “Told him I'd rather die alone than be some gangster's trophy wife.”

I stare at her, something shifting inside me. Admiration—genuine admiration—swells in my chest. In our world, few dareto defy men like Igor Lebedev. Even fewer walk away from the protection and privilege that comes with our family names.

“That took courage,” I say, my voice low. “Most people never stand up to men like your father.”

She shrugs, but I can see pride beneath her casual dismissal. “It wasn't courage. It was survival.”

“No.” I shake my head, needing her to understand. “I've seen people survive, Katarina. They bend, compromise, and lose pieces of themselves. You didn't just survive—you rebuilt.”

I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger against her cheek.

“You walked away from everything—money, connections, protection—to build something that's truly yours.” The respect in my voice surprises even me. “Do you have any idea how rare that is in our world?”

Her eyes meet mine, unguarded for once.

“People born into families like ours follow the path laid out for them. We become what our fathers need—soldiers, businessmen, monsters.” I look down at my scarred knuckles. “We rarely become what we choose.”

The morning light catches her profile, illuminating the strength in her jawline and the determination that has become part of her very being.

“You chose yourself, Katarina. Choose your own path. Built something legitimate with nothing but your mind and will.” I feel a smile forming—rare for me. “That's more impressive than anything your father ever built with blood, money, and threats.”

She watches me carefully, perhaps searching for mockery or manipulation in my words. She'll find none. My admiration is genuine—perhaps the most honest thing between us.

“In our world,” I continue, “wealth comes easily through violence and fear. What's difficult is creating something real.Something that's yours.” I touch her chin gently. “You did the difficult thing and came out on top.”

I reach for her without thinking, cupping her face in my hands. My thumbs trace her cheekbones, feeling the softness beneath my calloused skin. The contrast between us has never been more apparent—she creates, I destroy. She builds, I break. Yet here we are.

When my lips touch hers, something shifts inside me. Not lust. Something deeper, more dangerous.

I've kissed her before—claimed her mouth with violence and need. My lips move slowly against hers, tasting rather than taking.

“Katarina,” I whisper against her mouth, her name a confession I can't hold back.