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I approach the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.

What will she think when she sees me? Does she want to be rescued, or have I convinced myself she needs saving when she doesn’t want me at all?

Does she love me?

30

KATARINA

I’m going to lose my mind.

Ten days of staring at these same four walls, and I swear the flowered wallpaper is starting to move on its own. The roses seem to mock me, their painted petals bright and cheerful while I rot in this pristine prison.

I pace to the window for the hundredth time today, pressing my palm against the glass that might as well be steel bars. The grounds stretch out below—manicured lawns and perfect hedgerows that once represented safety. Now they’re just another cage, wider but no less confining.

The meeting with Anton plays on repeat in my head like a broken record. His cold smile when he outlined my future.Close the company. Live on the estate. Breed his heirs.

“Fucking psychopath.” I kick the antique chair beside my desk, sending it spinning.

The worst part? The way he looked at me when he said he’d enjoy breaking me. As if I were already his property to damage.

I collapse onto the bed, burying my face in silk pillows that smell like lavender and imprisonment. My father chose this. Actually sat down with contracts and lawyers andsold melike livestock.

Erik would never?—

I punch the pillow harder than necessary. “Stop thinking about him.”

But I can’t. Even when I’m furious, even when logic screams that he’s the enemy, my mind drifts to those dark eyes and scarred hands. The way he looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than just a pawn in some family chess game.

He saw me as dangerous. Capable. Worth talking to, rather than just talking at.

“God, I’m pathetic.” I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “Stockholm syndrome much?”

Three more days until the wedding. Three days before I become Mrs. Petrov and disappear into a life that isn’t mine.

I sit up, scanning the room for anything useful. The windows are sealed. The door’s locked from the outside. Even my laptop and phone are gone—confiscated the moment I got home.

Home. What a joke.

A sound from outside breaks through my spiral of self-pity. A deep, rumbling boom rattles the windows, sending birds scattering from the trees.

I freeze, listening.

That wasn’t thunder.

Another boom echoes across the grounds, followed by a sharp crack that makes my blood freeze.

Gunshots.

I launch myself at the window, pressing my face against the glass until it fogs with my breath. The decorative iron bars that once seemed quaint now block my view completely, cutting the grounds into narrow slices that reveal nothing useful.

“Come on.” I grip the bars, trying to angle my head for a better view. All I can see are fragments—a corner of the main drive, part of the fountain, and shadows moving between the hedges that could be guards, gardeners, or attackers.

More shots ring out, rapid-fire and close enough to make the windowpane vibrate. My heart hammers against my ribs as I strain to see anything, anything at all.

“What the hell is going on out there?”

I spin from the window and rush to the door, pounding my fist against the heavy wood.