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Nikolai sets down his wine glass with deliberate precision. “So. What do you need?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“To get her out. What do you need from us?”

“I thought you said?—”

“I said we weren't starting a war. I didn't say we wouldn't help you start one.” His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Besides, Igor's been a problem for too long anyway.”

Alexi rubs his hands together. “Finally. I was getting tired of playing defense.”

“This is not an excuse to blow things up,” I warn him.

“Everything's an excuse to blow things up if you're creative enough.”

Sofia shakes her head. “I married into a family of sociopaths.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing,” Dmitri grins, then winces as the movement pulls at his wound.

Somehow, I feel more positive than I have in years, especially with my family on my side.

27

KATARINA

Four days. Four days of staring at the same four walls, eating meals on a tray brought by the maid. The windows remain sealed, thick curtains often drawn tight to block any glimpse of the outside world. My childhood sanctuary has become my prison cell.

The lock clicks, and I don't bother looking up from where I'm sprawled on the bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Or maybe the day before. Time blurs when you're trapped.

“Katarina.” Father's voice cuts through the stale air. “Get up.”

I continue staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster for the hundredth time. “No.”

“I wasn't asking.” His footsteps approach, measured and deliberate. “You're meeting your fiancé today. Anton will be here within the hour, and I expect you to be presentable and polite.”

The word 'fiancé' hits like a physical blow. I've spent three days trying to convince myself this nightmare wasn't real, that he'd change his mind or come to his senses. But hearing it again makes everything crystallize into a sharp, painful focus.

I sit up slowly, meeting his cold stare. “Go to hell.”

His expression doesn't change. This isn't the father who used to read me bedtime stories or who taught me to ride a bike. Thisis Igor Lebedev, the man who builds empires on other people's blood.

“You will shower, dress appropriately, and conduct yourself like the lady you were raised to be.” Each word is clipped. “Anton Petrov is doing our family a considerable favor by accepting this arrangement.”

“A favor?” I laugh, the sound bitter and raw. “You mean accepting damaged goods? Is that how you sold me to him?”

“You will not speak of yourself that way.”

“Why not? It's what you think, isn't it? That I'm broken somehow because I won't marry whoever you choose? Because I built something of my own instead of waiting for you to hand me off to the highest bidder?”

His jaw tightens. “What you built was an illusion. Everything you have, everything you are, flows from this family. From me.”

“Then take it.” I stand, fury burning through the numbness that's kept me company for three days. “Take the company, take the money, take everything with your name on it. I don't care.”

“You will care when you're living on the streets.”

“Better than living as Anton Petrov's wife.”

Father's face hardens into stone. “There is no choice, Katarina. This decision has been made.”