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Tomorrow. Alone with Viktor in "private facilities." The implication sends dual waves of panic and unwelcome anticipation through me. My thighs clench involuntarily beneath the table, body responding to memories my mind desperately tries to suppress.

"I've prepared extensive documentation on the western networks," I respond, professional mask firmly in place despite the chaos inside. "My diplomatic contacts are thoroughly cataloged for security assessment."

"Excellent." Viktor's voice betrays nothing beyond appropriate professional interest, though his eyes never leave mine. "Comprehensive intelligence streamlines integration significantly."

As the formal dinner concludes, my father orchestrates the next movement in his carefully choreographed evening. "Perhaps you'd like to show Mr. Baranov the winter garden, Anastasia. I have several calls to complete before our final discussions."

The transparent attempt to allow "private connection" between arranged fiancés would be almost laughable if not for the dangerous complications it presents. Nevertheless, I perform as expected, rising with practiced grace.

"The night-blooming jasmine is particularly impressive this time of year," I offer, the perfect Bratva hostess. "My mother established the collection before her death."

Viktor follows my lead seamlessly, thanking my father for dinner with appropriate deference before accompanying me from the dining room. We walk in silence through the east corridor toward the glass-enclosed garden that serves as my mother's living memorial—and one of the few spaces in the Markov compound without active surveillance.

A fact Viktor seems to know instinctively.

The moment we cross the threshold into the humid warmth of the tropical enclosure, the air between us changes. Electric. Dangerous. His perfectly maintained professional demeanor shifts subtly—not dropping entirely but allowing something else to emerge beneath the surface.

The glass walls fog slightly with condensation, creating an otherworldly bubble separated from the cold Moscow night. Exotic flowers hang in cascades around us, their heavy perfume almost narcotic in intensity. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending alert to his proximity.

"The climate control system maintains consistent temperature year-round," I explain for any listening ears in the corridor behind us, moving deeper among exotic foliage. "Particularly important for the tropical specimens."

When we reach the central fountain—Italian marble, water flowing in carefully engineered patterns that create white noise capable of defeating most audio surveillance—Viktor moves suddenly. His hand catches my wrist, not roughly but with unmistakable intention, drawing me behind a curtain of hanging orchids.

The physical contact sends shock waves through nerve endings that remember his touch in entirely different contexts. Heat blooms where his fingers circle my wrist, spreading up my arm in a rush of unwanted response. I pull away immediately, anger finally breaking through my composed exterior.

"Don't touch me," I whisper furiously, keeping my voice below the fountain's cover while taking a step back. My back meets the rough bark of a tropical tree, leaving me nowhere to retreat.

He doesn't advance, but his presence seems to fill the space between us, the controlled power in his body evident in every line. His eyes rake over me with deliberate intensity, lingering on the pulse visibly racing at my throat, the flush I can feel spreading across my chest.

"Anastasia." My name in his mouth again after all this time—not formal "Miss Markova" but the intimate version he whispered against my skin in Paris. "We need to talk."

"Now you want to talk?" I hiss, fury rising dangerously close to the surface. My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails digging half-moons into my palms. "After your perfect performance in there? Pretending we've never met?"

"Would you prefer I told your father about Paris?" His voice remains low, controlled, but with an edge that wasn't present during dinner. He steps closer, not touching me but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the sandalwood cologne mingling with his skin. "About how his precious daughter spent a night of freedom?"

The threat—for that's exactly what it is—lands with accuracy. A dangerous reminder of the power he holds, the damage he could do with a single revelation.

"What game are you playing?" I demand, searching his face for some explanation of this impossible situation. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. "Paris, and now this? Infiltrating my father's organization? Agreeing to this... arrangement?"

"The same question applies to you." His gaze is relentless, assessing. One hand braces against the tree beside my head, not touching me but effectively caging me in. "The diplomat daughter, the perfect Bratva princess. Was Paris just rebellion? Entertainment before returning to your predetermined role?"

The unfairness of his accusation burns. "You disappeared. Without a word. You knew exactly who I was, and now I find out all these months later that you were working your way into my father’s good graces. Why did you not tell me?"

Something flickers across his features—confirmation or calculation, impossible to determine. His free hand rises, hovering near my face without making contact, the heat of his skin palpable in the humid air.

"What I knew or didn't know in Paris is irrelevant now." He glances toward the garden entrance, ever vigilant. His jacket shifts, revealing again the outline of his concealed weapon—a visible reminder of the danger he represents. "What matters is our current situation. Your father expects our cooperation."

"Cooperation." I nearly laugh, the sound threatening to transform into something closer to hysteria. "Is that what we're calling this charade?"

"Call it survival." His voice hardens, eyes turning to flint. He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers, "This alliance serves both our interests, whatever complications our... previous acquaintance creates."

Previous acquaintance. The clinical description of a night that changed everything—that created Sofia. The daughter he knows nothing about. The secret that would destroy everything if revealed.

I wonder, with sudden cold clarity, what he would do if he knew. If he discovered Sofia's existence. Would he use her as leverage against my father? Against me? Would he see her as an asset to be deployed, as my father sees me? The possibility sends ice through my veins, strengthening my resolve to keep her hidden, safe, far from this world of violence.

"Do you remember Paris… that night… everything between us?" he asks suddenly, those silver eyes piercing through my defenses. Not an innocent question—a challenge. A test to determine what I acknowledge, what I deny.

His hand moves to my throat, not gripping but resting lightly against my thundering pulse. The touch brands me, sending unwelcome heat spiraling down my body. My breath catches audibly.