Page 15

I’m balancing a breakfast tray on my lap, trying to force down a piece of toast, when my phone rings. The jarring ringtone makes my heart jolt, and I fumble to answer. I see Cecily’s name on the screen, and a ripple of dread travels through me. After the way I left things the other day, my gut says something’s wrong.

“Cecily?” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

She sounds breathless. “What the hell was your husband thinking?”

I sit up straight. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, like you don’t know.” Her tone sends me reeling. Cecily never raises her voice. Never.

I set my plate aside. “Cecily, what happened? You need to give me context, or—”

She snorts a harsh, humorless sound. When she speaks, her voice trembles with anger. Maybe fear, too. “You really have no idea?”

My blood chills. “Cecily—”

“Promise you won’t freak out.”

“Just tell me.”

Her words spill out in a rush: “Grigor showed up at our house. He… stabbed Father’s hand to his desk. It was… I’ve never seen anything so awful. There was blood, yelling, everything.”

“He… stabbed him? When?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Right after you left. Father was raging after the fight you two had. Then Grigor arrived, pushed past the guards, and marched straight in. I… Sera, it was intense.”

My pulse pounds. I struggle to process the image: Grigor storming into that office, using violence to avenge me. Nausea churns in my gut, partly horror at the brutality, partly relief that Father deserved some comeuppance for hurting me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies quickly. “Father’s not. He’s furious and moaning about revenge, but he’s got a bandaged hand now. At least it’s not life-threatening. Grigor threatened to kill him if he ever lays a hand on you again.”

My breath hitches. I went to great lengths to hide the bruise from Grigor. I’ve never worn so much makeup in my life. He must have found out through one of the bodyguards. A wave of panic hits me. If he discovered my father struck me, maybe he also discovered everything else, including my spying. I close my eyes as a cold sweat gathers on my brow.

“Sera?” Cecily prompts. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” I force out. “I… I’m here.”

“Are you safe? Grigor didn’t punish you for keeping it secret, did he?”

I press a trembling hand to my forehead. “No, he hasn’t even mentioned it. He came home last night acting normal, like nothing unusual happened. I had no idea he went to see Father. Cecily, did Father tell him… anything else while he was over there?”

She’s silent for a moment. As far as I know, my sister has no idea about the bargain our father and I made, and I’d rather keep it that way. “Father was too busy cursing about his hand to mention anything else. He just kept calling Grigor a maniac.”

I swallow hard. “Okay.” Relief washes over me, tangling with guilt. The man just risked a war with my father to defend me, and I’m still planning to betray him for Cecily’s sake. The duality of it all hurts.

“Sera, he stood up for you. Isn’t that… I don’t know, kind of sweet, in a twisted way?”

“Maybe. But it’s also terrifying. I’m sorry it happened while you were around.”

“It’s not your fault. Just be careful. Father’s full of rage now. I don’t know what he’ll do next.”

“I will.” The weight of everything settles like a stone in my belly. “Thanks for letting me know.”

We end the call, and my hands tremble as I set the phone aside. Grigor attacked my father in retaliation for him hitting me, which means Grigor must care—or at least feel possessive enough to avenge me. And he doesn’t know the truth yet about me feeding my father scraps of information. I shut my eyes, torn between gratitude and dread. Every day I hold on to this secret is another day I risk him discovering my betrayal.

A tentative knock sounds on the door. I glance up as Galina peeks in. “Mrs. Barkov, your husband wants to see if you’re ready for the event tonight. He mentioned leaving in an hour.”

“Event?” I echo. Then I recall something about a dinner party. He mentioned it briefly a few days ago, but so much happened I forgot. After what he did for me, attending without making a fuss is the least I can do. “Tell him I’ll be ready.”

She nods and withdraws, and I stare at my reflection in the dresser mirror. My cheek is healing, with only a faint discoloration left. Grigor saw nothing last night, or if he did, he pretended otherwise. I steel myself, forcing a calm facade, vowing to act normal around him. If he realizes how rattled I am by what he did to my father, he might ask questions I can’t answer.

I dress carefully, choosing a sleek, midnight-blue gown that clings to my curves without being overly revealing. The fabric shimmers faintly under the light, the high slit adding just enough allure while the fitted bodice keeps the look elegant. It’s the kind of dress that demands attention without trying too hard, exactly what tonight requires and what Grigor deserves.

My reflection stares back with an anxious twist to the lips. I touch the faint bruise on my cheek, thinking of Father’s slap and Grigor’s savage revenge. A swirl of emotion floods me: fear of my father, admiration for Grigor, guilt for keeping secrets. I push it all down as I smooth my dress. Tonight, I’ll be the perfect Bratva wife in public, if that’s what he needs.

***

“Seraphina,” Grigor says when I step out of the bedroom. He’s waiting in the corridor, wearing a tailored suit. He looks me over and grants me an approving nod. “You look good.”

I offer a polite smile, ignoring the flutter in my chest. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He holds out an arm, silently inviting me to walk with him. I link mine through his and let him guide me downstairs and into the waiting car. The driver pulls away, leaving the estate behind. I glance at Grigor’s hands, recalling how one of them pinned my father to that desk and drove a blade through skin and bone. A chill prickles my spine, but I keep my face neutral.

We ride in silence for a few minutes before he eventually says, “This dinner party is hosted by one of our allies. I want you by my side. Any questions?”

I wet my lips. “Am I allowed to ask about them? Or is that off-limits?”

“It’s not off-limits, but it’s also not crucial. They’re well-connected, mostly old-money types who want to keep good terms with the Bratva. You’ll likely meet a variety of people with big egos. You may have met them before with your father.”

The venue is grand, with towering archways and gilded details that scream old money. The kind of place that expects you to look the part and act like you belong, even if the people inside are anything but noble. Grigor leads me inside with his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, a silent claim for anyone who might be watching. It’s a weight I feel keenly, especially as the room falls quiet when we enter.

Whispers ripple through the crowd as we move. Grigor’s presence commands attention without him doing anything more than existing. I keep my head high and my expression neutral, just as I’ve learned to do over the years. But there’s a massive difference this time. Tonight, I’m not Evan Thorne’s over-protected daughter—I’m Grigor Barkov’s wife. That distinction feels both liberating and damning.

“Grigor!” A high, lilting voice slices through the muted chatter.

I glance toward the source, and my stomach tightens. A blonde woman in a revealing red dress strides toward us. She’s beautiful in a way that’s almost too polished, like a porcelain doll. Her lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and the way she moves is as deliberate as a predator stalking prey.

“Emma,” Grigor greets her, though his voice is devoid of any warmth.

I blink at the name. Emma. His ex. He mentioned her once, briefly in passing, but I didn’t expect to meet her. Not like this. My hands instinctively brush the fabric of my gown, a nervous tic I hope looks casual.

“And this must be the new Mrs. Barkov,” Emma says, her gaze flicking to me. Her smile becomes more pointed, and I can feel her judgment before she even speaks again. “How lovely to meet you.”

Her tone drips with condescension, and I have to fight the urge to step back under her scrutiny. Instead, I extend my hand with a calm I don’t quite feel. “Seraphina,” I reply. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

She shakes my hand but is quick to recoil, like she’s afraid to touch me for too long. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she purrs as her eyes dart back to Grigor. “Though I must admit, I’m surprised. She’s… different from your usual type.”

The comment lands as I’m sure it intends, but I refuse to flinch. I don’t look at Grigor out of fear of what his expression might reveal, but I can feel his tension beside me. “Different can be good,” I offer, matching her false smile with one of my own. “Grigor certainly seems to think so.”

Emma’s jaw goes tight for a fraction of a second before she laughs, a lilting sound that grates on my nerves. “Of course,” she replies, stepping closer to Grigor. Too close. Her hand brushes his arm, and a burning heat sears up the back of my neck. “You’ve always had an eye for surprises, haven’t you?”

Grigor pulls away from her attempt at familiarity. “Emma, don’t you have other guests to attend to? Your parents are expecting you to mingle, I’m sure.”

Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly. “Of course. Duty calls.” She casts me one last lingering glance before adding, “Enjoy the evening, Seraphina. And welcome to the family.”

She disappears into the crowd, and I exhale slowly as the tension in my chest relaxes a bit. I glance up at Grigor, who watches her retreat with little interest. “She’s charming,” I mutter.

“She’s irrelevant,” he replies as though he can read my mind. “Don’t waste your energy on her.”

I nod, though the encounter burrows itself in the back of my mind as the evening continues. Grigor introduces me to various guests—men with firm handshakes and harder eyes, women draped in diamonds and fur who greet me with fake smiles and probing questions. I play my part, offering polite answers and leaning into Grigor’s presence when the scrutiny feels too much. It’s exhausting, but I manage.

Excusing myself to the restroom feels like a reprieve, and I meander through the crowd to find one. I’m halfway there when someone catches my wrist. The touch is firm, not painful, but it startles me enough to pull back instinctively.

“Seraphina?”

I turn and freeze. Standing before me is a man I haven’t seen in years, but one I recognize immediately. Dark hair, pointed jawline, and green eyes that once looked at me like I hung the moon. Marco Romano. The son of one of my father’s old friends. We grew up together before he moved to Sicily, and there was a time—brief and distant—when I thought I might have feelings for him.

“Marco,” I greet him, forcing a smile. “It’s been a while.”

He grins, and his teeth are still much too white, too perfect. “More than a while. You’ve grown up.”

“And you’ve moved up,” I reply, gesturing to his expensive suit. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same.” His eyes roam over me in a way that at one point in time would’ve been endearing. “Though I heard about your… arrangement.”

“Marriage,” I correct. “Not an arrangement.”

“Of course,” he corrects, the grin never leaving his face. “How’s the Bratva treating you? Your husband must be keeping you… occupied.”

I pull my wrist free and step back. “Marco, if you’ll excuse me, I need to—”

“Don’t rush off,” he interrupts, stepping closer. His hand lands on my arm, and I stiffen. “We’re old friends, Sera. No need to be so formal.”

“We were children,” I reply. “That doesn’t make us friends now.”

His grin falls, and something darker flashes in his eyes. “So cold,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “What happened to the girl who used to follow me around, batting those pretty lashes?”

“She grew up. And she doesn’t have time for games.”

Before he can reply, I glance over his shoulder and catch sight of Grigor. He’s standing near the edge of the room with a rigid posture and his jaw clenched. His brown eyes are fixed on me and Marco, and the fury radiating from his direction is palpable even from a distance.

Marco follows my line of sight and chuckles. “Ah, I see. The husband doesn’t like to share.”

I tear my eyes away from Grigor, meeting Marco’s smirk with a cold glare. “He doesn’t have to.”

Marco laughs again, but I’m already stepping past him. Or trying to, anyway. He doesn’t let me get far before he pulls on my arm again.

The weight of Grigor’s stare lingers on my back, and I know, without a doubt, that things are about to get really messy, really fast.