Page 3

The night air is cool against my skin as I step out of the car, the gravel crunching softly beneath my heels.

I breathe in deep, trying to shake the weight of the evening—the too-slick smiles, the empty conversations, the phantom pressure of all those eyes pretending not to measure me. The estate looms in front of me, its tall windows glowing faintly, like the house is half asleep.

My gown clings to me, still perfect, still shimmering under the moonlight.

It hugs my waist and falls in smooth, expensive folds, dusting against the cold stone path.

The diamonds at my throat catch what little light there is, glittering like secrets.

I wrap my arms around myself as I walk up the steps, heels clicking in a steady rhythm I don’t feel.

I’m tired. My body aches from pretending. I just want to go inside, kick off my shoes, and pretend, for one night, that this place still feels like home.

The driver pulls away without a word. I reach the door, unlock it, and step inside.

The silence hits me first.

Not the usual kind, not the stillness I grew up with in this house—clean and deliberate and expensive—but something heavier. Denser. The kind that settles low in your gut, makes the hairs on the back of your neck lift. The kind that warns.

I freeze just past the threshold. The air is too thick. Too still.

I know this house. Every creak, every shadow. I know what silence is supposed to sound like. This isn’t it.

My heels echo too loudly as I walk deeper into the foyer.

“Dad?” I call softly, already knowing there won’t be an answer.

Something is wrong.

The air smells strange—coppery, metallic. Faint, but present. It clings to the back of my throat. I step past the grand staircase, hand trailing along the polished wood of the banister, trying to anchor myself. My heart is starting to pound.

Then I see it.

At the far end of the foyer, in the center of the marble floor—he’s there. My father. On his knees.

His head hangs low, body slumped forward. Blood stains the front of his shirt, dried and crusted around his mouth and collar. His arms are bound behind him, the rope cutting deep into his skin. His right eye is swollen shut, lips split. His breath rattles, uneven and pained.

Surrounded.

Two men stand behind him, one to each side—silent, still, waiting. Armed. But it’s the third man, the one standing just behind them, who makes the air vanish from my lungs entirely.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and a severe expression.

A dark coat clings to his broad frame, rain-slicked and heavy. The light from the chandelier above catches on the sharp planes of his face—high cheekbones, an angular jaw, and eyes like glass. Cold, brown, unreadable. The kind of eyes that don’t blink at pain. That don’t flinch at screams.

Andrei Sharov.

I don’t know him personally, but I know the name. The face.

Everyone does.

The whispers follow it like smoke—Bratva, enforcer, butcher. The kind of man you don’t cross unless you’ve stopped caring about breathing.

My pulse slams against my ribs. I can’t speak. Can’t move.

His gaze shifts slowly, locking on to mine. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks like he’s been waiting. Like he planned this.

Then he starts walking. Each step echoes off the stone like a clock ticking down to something I don’t want to understand.

His eyes drag over me—head to toe, slow and assessing. Not like a man seeing a woman. Like a predator learning the shape of its prey. Measuring how long it’ll take to sink his teeth in.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the smoke on his coat. His mouth curves into something cruel and deliberate.

“You’re late,” he says.

Two words, soft as silk and twice as dangerous. My throat is dry. “What… what is this?”

Andrei tilts his head slightly, like he’s amused I had the nerve to speak.

“This,” he says, gesturing behind him with a flick of his hand, “is consequence.”

I glance past him. My father hasn’t moved. His head hangs lower now, as if the sound of my voice is too much to bear.

“You can’t be here,” I whisper. “This is—this is private property.”

Andrei’s eyes narrow slightly. “Still clinging to rules, even now. That’s adorable.”

I back up a step. He follows.

“You’re trespassing,” I say, voice shaking. “You need to leave. Now.”

He steps closer. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the stillness of his body coiled like a loaded weapon.

“Leave?” he echoes. “After everything your father’s done? No….” His voice lowers. “I’m just getting started.”

My chest is heaving now. “What did he do?” I demand, even though I already know the answer. I’ve known it for a long time. I just never had proof.

Andrei smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ask him. If he can still talk.”

I turn toward my father. He lifts his head with visible effort, one bloodshot eye barely opening. His lips part.

“Alina…,” he croaks, voice raw.

I take a step forward, but Andrei blocks me with an arm, one hand pressing lightly to my stomach. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop me. To remind me who holds the leash now.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He lets the gesture land, unfazed. “You’re brave. I like that.”

“I’m not here for your approval.”

“No,” he says, voice softening to something darker. “You’re here to witness.”

“To what?”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slightly, nods once at the man on the floor.

For a second, I don’t move. I just stand there, numb, the blood rushing in my ears so loud it drowns out everything else. The chandelier above casts warped reflections on the marble, on the ropes binding my father’s wrists, on the crimson streaks along his shirt.

Then it hits: the panic. A full-body jolt.

I lunge forward, toward him. “Dad—!”

I barely make it three steps before rough hands close around my arms.

“Let me go!” I scream, twisting hard, heels skidding across the slick floor. The guards tighten their grip. My wrist wrenches, sharp and sudden, and I cry out. “He’s hurt, I need to help him!”

The taller one says nothing. His hold digs in harder, pulling me back. My other arm flails—useless—and I kick, managing to catch one of them in the shin. He grunts but doesn’t release me.

“Let me go!”

I thrash against them, eyes wild, lungs burning. I don’t care how strong they are. I don’t care who they work for. My father is bleeding, broken, kneeling in our home like he’s nothing, and they’re holding me like I’m a threat—like I’m part of this.

“Stop it,” I shout, voice cracking. “Get your hands off me!”

The shorter one adjusts his grip, pulling my arms back behind me. I arch forward, trying to shake him off, teeth clenched against the sudden pain in my shoulders.

Andrei doesn’t move.

He stands there, calm, unmoved, a shadow in human form. Not yelling. Not laughing. Just watching me unravel like he expected it. Like this is all part of the show.

“Why are you doing this?” I gasp, struggling again. “He’s my father!”

Still, nothing. Not a word.

“Please!” My voice breaks completely now. I barely recognize it. “He’s my dad—you can’t just—”

“Alina.”

It’s the quiet finality in the way he says it, like I’m already his and I don’t know it yet. Like the rest of this is just a formality. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he says, gaze holding mine. “Unless you give them reason to.”

I stare at him, shaking. My breath comes in short, uneven pulls. My chest aches. My arms are going numb from how hard they’re holding me.

“I want to leave,” I whisper.

He blinks, slow and unbothered. “That’s not your decision anymore.”

Something in me snaps. I yank hard, adrenaline surging, and the guard’s grip slips just enough—I twist, wrenching myself free. One heel snaps beneath me but I don’t stop.

I run. The front door is ten feet away. Maybe less. If I can get outside, scream, someone might hear me. One of the staff, the neighbors, anyone.

I don’t care if I have to crawl. I reach for the handle—

Hands slam into me from behind.

I scream as I’m tackled, shoved hard against the wall beside the entrance. My cheek hits cold stone, my palms scraping against the paneling. One of the guards pins my arms behind my back again, this time with brutal precision.

“Stop!” I cry, thrashing uselessly. “Let me go! You can’t do this, you can’t just—”

Another set of hands grabs my waist, forcing me still. I twist, kick, bite down on a scream that tears from my throat anyway.

“Get off me!”

They don’t respond. They just hold. Unshakable. Unrelenting.

Tears sting my eyes, hot and sharp. Not from fear. From fury. From helplessness. From the humiliating realization that nothing I say or do matters.

I’m not in control.

I turn my head, panting, hair falling across my face, and lock eyes with him again.

Andrei hasn’t moved. He stands in the center of the foyer, hands in his pockets, coat still damp from the night air. Calm. Steady. Watching me like he’s seen this before. Like it amuses him. Like he enjoys watching things fall apart.

His expression doesn’t change.

Not when I screamed. Not when I ran. Not even now as I’m pinned to the wall like a criminal in my own home.

Only his eyes move—dragging over me with a kind of slow calculation that makes my skin crawl. Not lust. Not cruelty. Something colder.

Ownership.

“I told you,” he says finally, “you’re late.”

Then he turns away, and I scream.

I scream until my throat shreds from the force of it, until my voice cracks and gives out, until it’s not a sound anymore but a raw, animal noise ripped from somewhere deep inside me.

The guard at my back shifts his stance, keeping my arms pinned as I sag against the wall, breathless and broken.

My chest heaves. My face is wet. I don’t know if it’s tears or sweat or both.

Still, Andrei doesn’t look back.

He walks slowly toward my father, silent and composed, like I’m no longer worth his attention. Like I’ve already been dealt with.

The guards hold me in place, but I barely feel them anymore. My focus narrows to the figure in front of me—the one who walked into my home, destroyed the man who raised me, and now moves through this place like he owns it.

Maybe he does.