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Anastasia's composure never wavers, though I feel her slight withdrawal from Petrov's proximity. Something protective and primal rises in me—anger disproportionate to the social offense, rage focused. My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood, the metallic flavor flooding my mouth as I fight to maintain control.

"Your insights on European travel prove limited, Viktor Petrov," I respond, voice deceptively calm while calculations of necessary force run automatically. "Perhaps focus on business matters more suited to your expertise."

"Just offering congratulations." Petrov's hand gestures expansively, champagne sloshing dangerously close to Anastasia's gown. "On acquiring such valuable asset. One with international experience."

The implication crosses final boundaries of both professional respect and personal tolerance. I move with controlled violence—hand capturing Petrov's wrist with precisely applied pressure against nerve clusters, body positioning to shield the interaction from most observers while maintaining social appearance.

"Apologize to my fiancée," I instruct quietly, applying additional pressure that brings involuntary moisture to Petrov's eyes. "Then remove yourself from her presence permanently."

"Meant no disrespect," he manages, pain evident beneath forced smile. "Simply acknowledging her cosmopolitan background."

I increase pressure incrementally, feeling tendons strain beneath my grip. "Not. Good. Enough."

Fear replaces intoxicated bravado in his expression. "My sincere apologies, Anastasia Mikhailovna. The champagne spoke inappropriately. Please accept my deepest regrets."

I release him with subtle shove that appears like friendly pat to distant observers. "Dmitri will escort you home. Your services won't be required tomorrow."

The intentional humiliation—public but disguised as social courtesy—lands precisely as intended. Petrov retreats with Dmitri's not-so-gentle guidance, leaving momentary privacy in the ballroom's quieter corner.

Anastasia studies me with new wariness, something beyond her usual detached assessment. "That was unnecessary. I've handled worse implications since childhood."

"I'm aware of your capabilities." My hand returns to her waist, a position that communicates ownership to watching eyes while allowing me to feel her physical responses. "That doesn't mean you should need to employ them at our engagement celebration."

"Our engagement celebration." She almost laughs, though no humor reaches her eyes. "Such a romantic arrangement, built on social advantage and territorial expansion."

"Like most Bratva marriages." I guide her toward the dance floor as orchestral music begins, formal waltz providing excuse for continued physical contact. "Though perhaps ours carries additional complications."

My hand settles at her lower back as we move into proper dance position, her body close enough that I feel her heart rate accelerate despite perfect composure. Her scent clouds my senses, familiar despite the years between us. My hand at her waist burns with the memory of her skin beneath it, the night in Paris when there were no barriers between us.

"Such as your obsessive surveillance of my movements?" she challenges quietly as we begin moving to the music, her body following mine with practiced grace. "The tracking device in this ostentatious ring? Your men following me to allegedly private appointments?"

Her awareness of my security measures should concern me tactically. Instead, I find myself impressed by her counter-intelligence capabilities, her perception triggering respect rather than alarm.

"Security concerns extend in multiple directions," I respond, drawing her imperceptibly closer as we turn. The heat of her body against mine makes it difficult to maintain professional focus, memories of Paris threatening to overwhelm tactical assessment. "Particularly given your interesting communication patterns."

She misses a step—nearly imperceptible falter quickly corrected, yet revealing vulnerability in her perfect performance. "My diplomatic contacts require regular consultation," she manages, voice steady despite the tension I feel beneath my hands.

"Diplomatic contacts." I guide her into a turn that conceals my expression from watching guests. "Requiring triple-encrypted Swiss proxy servers and seventeen-step authentication protocols? Fascinating diplomatic standards."

Her eyes meet mine directly, challenge beneath fear. "What exactly are you suggesting, Viktor?"

The use of my first name—intimate despite our public performance of intimacy—catches me off-guard. For a dangerous moment, I'm back in Paris, her voice whispering my name against my skin as her body moved beneath mine.

"I'm suggesting," I manage, professional focus reasserting itself, "that your secure communications represent significant security anomaly. One that requires investigation."

"By my fiancé or my father's lieutenant?" Her question cuts directly to the heart of our complicated dynamic.

"The distinction matters to you?" I counter, genuine curiosity beneath tactical questioning. Something in me wants her to say yes, wants her to see me as something more than her father's man, more than a Bratva arrangement.

"The motivations certainly differ." Something vulnerable flashes briefly in her expression. "As do the potential consequences."

The music concludes before I can respond, social obligation forcing our separation as Markov approaches to claim obligatory dance with his daughter. I watch them move across the floor—Anastasia's perfect performance resuming, not a hint of our confrontation visible in her composed features.

Yet something fundamental has shifted between us. Her awareness of my surveillance, her challenge regarding motivations, her distinction between fiancé and lieutenant—all suggest complexity beyond simple Bratva arrangement.

Who are you really, Anastasia Markova? What secrets require such elaborate protection? And why does the possibility of another man in your life fill me with rage that threatens Five years of disciplined focus?

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