Page 57

Before I can formulate a response that won't reveal too much, voices approach from the corridor—my father and Dmitri, conversation drawing nearer. Viktor steps back smoothly, professional distance restored in an instant, though his eyes still burn with something dangerous.

"The architectural integration of natural elements is quite impressive," he says at normal volume, the perfect interested guest commenting on the winter garden. "Your mother had remarkable vision."

I follow his lead automatically, years of Bratva training providing the expected response despite internal chaos. "She believed in creating beauty within secure environments. A philosophy reflected throughout the compound design."

My father appears at the entrance, assessing our positions, our expressions, the appropriate distance between us with practiced suspicion. Finding nothing objectionable in our performance, he gestures us back toward the main house.

"If you've concluded the tour, we have final arrangements to discuss in my study."

"Of course, Father." I move past Viktor without meeting his eyes, maintaining perfect composure despite the trembling that threatens to overtake me. "Mr. Baranov was just admiring Mother's orchid collection."

As I pass, Viktor's hand brushes mine deliberately—a whispered contact invisible to my father but sending electricity racing up my arm. A silent promise or a subtle threat, I cannot tell which.

The remainder of the evening passes in a blur of details, contractual specifications, and planning—all conducted with flawless professionalism that reveals nothing of the undercurrents between Viktor and me. Throughout, I feel his occasional gaze like physical touch, though his expression betrays nothing beyond appropriate business interest.

When he finally departs, my father lingers in the foyer, studying my reaction with uncomfortable intensity.

"Your impressions?" he asks, watching for any tell, any reaction that might reveal more than I intend.

"He seems competent." I keep my assessment deliberately neutral, even as Viktor's scent lingers in my nostrils, his phantom touch burning against my skin. "Professional. Focused. The alliance appears logical from my perspective."

My father's thin smile suggests this measured response meets his expectations. "You'll work well together. Both of you understand what truly matters in our world."

If he only knew.

"I'll prepare the diplomatic dossiers for tomorrow's meeting," I respond, eager to escape his assessment. "The security integration requires thorough preparation."

He nods dismissal, already turning toward his waiting lieutenants. I maintain perfect composure until I reach my private suite, instructing the security detail to maintain perimeter positions rather than direct door surveillance.

Only when the door locks behind me—electronic security engaging with reassuring finality—do I allow the carefully constructed façade to crumble.

I barely make it to the bathroom before the violent nausea overwhelms me. Knees hitting marble tile, I vomit until nothing remains but bitter acid and painful dry heaves. The physical purging does nothing to relieve the emotional storm—fury, disbelief, terror, and beneath it all, the unwelcome heat his presence ignited despite everything.

My body trembles uncontrollably, cold sweat breaking across my skin as I retch again. The ghost of his touch lingers on my wrist, my throat, burning like brands against my flesh. Tears stream down my face—from physical exertion or emotional overload, I can't determine which.

Viktor. Here. Serving my father. Arranged to marry me.

Sofia's father, embedded in the heart of the organization I've been plotting to escape.

When the retching finally subsides, I rinse my mouth and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The perfect Bratva princess mask has slipped, revealing the woman beneath—pale, shaking, eyes too bright with emotion no Markov should display.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the silver locket at my throat, the one containing Sofia's tiny lock of hair. I open it to reveal the wisp of dark hair, so like her father's. My vision blurs with tears as I press the locket to my lips.

"I'll keep you safe, milaya," I whisper, my voice breaking on the Russian endearment. My hands shake so badly I can barely close the locket again. "No matter what it costs."

Tomorrow I face Viktor alone. Tomorrow I must navigate the most dangerous interaction of my life—with a man who holds power he doesn't even realize. A man who could destroy everything with a single revelation to my father.

A man whose touch still burns against my skin hours later. Whose eyes haunt my thoughts. Whose child sleeps peacefully in a Swiss chalet, unknown to him or the world.

Who is Viktor Baranov, really? What game is he playing? And most crucially—what would he do if he knew about Sofia?

Questions without answers, dangers without clear paths of escape. Yet one certainty remains absolute, burning through confusion and fear alike: I will protect my daughter, whatever the cost.

Even if that cost includes facing Viktor Baranov across a conference table tomorrow, pretending our shared past doesn't exist—while my traitorous body remembers every touch, every whispered word, every moment of connection we shared in Paris darkness.

Even if that cost includes marrying the most dangerous man I've ever known.

16