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"And when you return to Moscow after your Paris adventure?"

"The same, but more so." I gaze out at the glittering city. "My father has... expectations about my future. Responsibilities I must accept."

"Marriage," he says flatly. Not a question.

My head snaps toward him, surprise overriding caution. Then, a small nod. He is in my world. He knows the expectations put on me. "Of course."

"It's the traditional path for someone in your position. Alliance through matrimony. Consolidation of power through bloodline."

The cold assessment of my future—though accurate—ignites unexpected anger. "You speak as if you know me, as if you understand what my life is."

"I understand cages, Anastasia." His voice carries a new edge, raw and personal. "Even golden ones."

The genuine emotion in his words stops my retort. For the first time, I glimpse something beyond the stoic exterior—a shadow of shared experience, a hint of personal history that resonates with my own captivity.

"Tell me about your cage, Viktor," I say quietly. "Who keeps you prisoner?"

For a long moment, he remains silent, and I think I've pushed too far, crossed some invisible boundary. Then he sets his tea aside, turning to face me fully.

"I was born into a prominent family with... significant interests across Eastern Europe." His words emerge carefully selected, yet I sense truth beneath the obvious omissions. "My parents had certain expectations. A predetermined path. When I deviated, there were consequences."

"What did you want instead?"

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Freedom. Education outside the family business. A life built on my own terms."

"But that didn't happen."

"No." Something dark crosses his expression. "There was an... incident. My brother was killed. My parents were, too, shortly after. The family business passed to others, but certain obligations remained."

The deliberate vagueness tells me as much as his actual words. Another Bratva story, another bloodline altered by violence. The subtext is clear—his family fell in one of the perpetual power struggles that define our world.

"And now?" I ask. "Are you still fulfilling those obligations?"

"Always." The word carries weight beyond its syllables. "But on my terms now. I serve specific interests, maintain certain alliances, but I'm not owned. Not anymore."

Envy stirs within me—unexpected, powerful. "That sounds like freedom to me."

"A vague concept at best." He studies me with unnerving intensity. "What would freedom look like for you, Anastasia?"

No one has ever asked me that either. The question unfolds possibilities I've scarcely allowed myself to imagine.

"I'd study art history," I say, the truth emerging before I can censor it. "At the Sorbonne, or perhaps Oxford. I'd travel without security details and political agendas. I'd choose my own path, my own... partners." I falter on the last word, suddenly aware of his proximity, the charged air between us.

"And instead, you'll return to Moscow and become what your father demands."

"Unless I don't." The words emerge as barely a whisper, seditious in their simplicity.

His eyes narrow slightly. "What does that mean?"

I set my tea aside, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "It means that tonight, in Paris, I'm not Anastasia Markov. I'm just a woman making her own choices for once."

Something dangerous flares in his eyes—desire warring with calculation. "Dangerous choices."

"Yes." I reach up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with hesitant fingers, feeling him tense beneath my touch. "Tell me to stop, Viktor."

His hand captures my wrist, but he doesn't push me away. "This isn't wise."

"I'm tired of being wise." My heart thunders against my ribs, fear and exhilaration mingling into intoxicating courage. "I'm tired of calculating every move, considering every consequence, living behind glass walls. For once, I want something simply because I want it."