Page 17 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

“ D eep breath,” Liam murmurs, brushing his hand across my lower back as we head toward the entrance. “We smile, we mingle, we’re out before dessert. Sound good?”

I nod, even though my heart’s going a mile a minute.

The dress I’m wearing—seafoam green, vintage, handpicked by Ingrid—feels like it belongs to someone braver than me.

The satin ribbon cinches tighter than I’d like, and the low back makes me hyper-aware of every set of eyes. It’s beautiful. It’s a lot.

Inside, the air hits cool and crisp—champagne, perfume, and money. Gold trim glints under the chandelier lights, and a string quartet plays something soft near the stage. Waiters glide by with trays of drinks and tiny food I couldn’t name if I tried.

Liam squeezes my hand, then heads toward a cluster of donors and politicians. He blends right in. I hang back for a second, then scan the room until I spot Miranda at the edge of the ballroom.

She sees me coming and schools her face into something unreadable—not cold, not warm. Neutral.

“Annika,” she says. “You made it.”

“Of course,” I say, smiling as I reach her. “Thanks again for the invite.”

She gives me a once-over. “You look lovely. Very polished.”

“I had help. Ingrid’s got an eye.” I pause. “I appreciate the introduction. Really.”

Her expression shifts—barely. Maybe approval. Maybe something else. “Has she?” Miranda’s tone is light, but I can hear the edge under it. “I wasn’t sure how that pairing would go.”

“She’s been good to me. Honest. I like that. She doesn’t make me feel like I’m wasting her time.”

Miranda nods slowly, her lips curving. “Good. Ingrid doesn’t bother with lost causes.”

She turns to the group around her and gestures. “Let me introduce a few of my colleagues—Nadine Patel, Thornville Women in Finance, Catherine Yao from the city council, and Lucille Marchand, editor of The Thornville Ledger. We all sit on the Businesswomen of Thornville board.”

I offer my hand to each of them. “Nice to meet you.”

They smile, polite but sharp-eyed. The kind of look that says: Impress us .

Miranda turns back to me. “You’ve made quite a few waves already, Miss Volkov. Stepping into the spotlight like this? It’s bold.”

“I don’t really have the luxury of waiting anymore,” I say, more honestly than I mean to.

That earns the barest twitch of Miranda’s mouth. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

She clinks her glass gently against mine. “Well then. Here’s to bold choices. Just make sure you can survive them.”

She clinks her glass gently against mine. “Well then. Here’s to bold choices. Just make sure you can survive them.”

We both sip, and for a moment, the noise of the gala feels farther away—dulled behind the crystal and politics and everything I don’t say.

Miranda glances out across the ballroom, watching the clusters of guests shifting and mingling. “I have to say, Burns surprised me,” she murmurs, almost idly. “I wasn’t sure he had it in him to flip the Harborview District. That’s what turned the tide, you know.”

I blink. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” She hums thoughtfully. “It’s always the battleground neighborhoods that decide these things. The ones no one pays enough attention to—until they matter.”

She doesn’t look at me when she says it. She just smiles faintly, lifts her glass again, and turns to greet someone across the room. The moment passes, and I let it.

It’s not until much later—when my feet ache and the buzz of champagne has faded—that the name sticks in my head like a splinter.

Harborview.

That was the district Miranda asked me about.

Back when I thought she was just doing me a favor. What was it really about? Was there more to that comment or am I just reading into things?

I shake the thought off. This isn’t the time to spiral.

Movement catches my eye—someone slipping through the side entrance, not so much sneaking as strutting.

A girl in a sparkly pink-and-silver minidress, hair wild around her shoulders, heels so high they look like weapons.

She’s laughing before she even makes it to the bar, a whirlwind of glitter and lip gloss and zero inhibition.

I lean toward Miranda. “Who’s that?”

Miranda follows my gaze and lets out a quiet sigh. “Emilie Gunnerson. Ingrid’s little sister.”

My eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh.”

“She’s… spirited,” Miranda says delicately. “Somewhat allergic to rules. Ingrid does her best, but Emilie’s made a bit of a name for herself lately.”

I watch as Emilie tosses her hair and loops her arm around a much older man’s neck, whispering something in his ear that makes him flush and stammer. She swipes a drink off a passing tray and downs it like water before twirling onto the dance floor in a cloud of sequins and chaos.

“Wow,” I murmur. “She doesn’t hold back.”

Miranda doesn’t respond, but her silence says enough.

I sip my champagne and keep my expression smooth, but there’s a strange twist in my chest watching her—like a memory I didn’t ask to remember.

I was like that, once. Loud. Reckless. Always running from something.

Always drinking too much, dressing too little, and pushing just far enough to get someone’s attention—anyone’s.

It was my way of rebelling against my father, of claiming control over something, even if it was just my own self-destruction.

I’m lucky I had Aleksey back then.

He watched my back, kept me from going too far. Pulled me out of more than one mess before it exploded.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I just thought he was being overprotective.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I just thought he was being overprotective.

But now, standing here in this glittering ballroom full of smiling predators, I understand exactly what he was doing. Why he always watched the exits. Why he stepped in, even when I didn’t ask.

A sharp pang rises in my chest. I miss him.

Not the Aleksey who came to the loft a few days ago and asked me to walk willingly into Anatoly’s courtroom like some kind of puppet.

But the Aleksey who used to tuck my hair behind my ear when I cried. Who once drove me three hours across state lines because I’d fixated on seeing snow that year.

The Aleksey who used to feel like home.

I know he was trying to protect me, in his own twisted way—but it still hurt. The things he said. The way he tried to make me feel guilty for not standing with my father. And then that moment… when he turned the tables on me, implying I was the one hiding things, too.

He was right.

I hadn’t told Liam.

Not until that night.

I swallow hard, the champagne suddenly sitting too heavy in my stomach. I don’t even know if Aleksey meant to push me toward that confession, or if he was just lashing out. Either way, the fallout’s still rattling inside me.

I scan the ballroom out of habit—half instinct, half escape—and that’s when I see them.

Liam, standing rigidly near one of the tall windows. And across from him, just out of the glow of the overhead lights, Aleksey.

My breath catches. He’s here.

He’s dressed in a dark suit, posture relaxed—but there’s nothing casual about the energy crackling between him and Liam. They’re squared off in quiet confrontation, too far for me to hear but close enough that I can feel the tension radiating from them.

For a heartbeat, I almost go over. I want to. I want to break it up, or explain, or maybe just look Aleksey in the eye and ask him why he came.

But I don’t move.

The air between them is too charged. Liam looks like he’s one wrong word from snapping, and Aleksey’s stance is deceptively calm—like a tiger pretending to nap.

This isn’t a conversation I should step into.

Not here. Not tonight. The last thing I want is to be the reason something explodes in front of Senator Burns and a room full of donors.

So I stay rooted to the floor. Watching. Waiting.

And wishing it didn’t hurt so much.

Then, slowly, Liam turns away from Aleksey and makes his way back toward me. His shoulders are still tight, but his expression is composed.

“Hey,” I say softly as he reaches me. “Everything alright?”

He nods once. “It’s fine. Just a surprise guest.”

I don’t push. His tone says enough—it’s handled. For now.

He offers his hand, palm up. “Dance with me?”

I hesitate just long enough to feel him doubt the offer, then slip my fingers into his. “Okay.”

The string quartet has shifted to something smooth and dreamy, the kind of slow waltz meant to soothe tensions and loosen purse strings. Liam’s hand rests at my waist as we move together, his steps confident, mine trailing just slightly behind.

It’s easy to pretend we’re just another couple here—politically adjacent, romantically entangled. No Mafia ties. No secrets. No blood between us.

But then Senator Burns steps up to the mic, and the music fades.

“I’m going to duck out for a minute,” I whisper. “Restroom.”

Liam kisses my hand like we’re still playing the part. “I’ll be here.”

I slip out of the ballroom and head for the quieter hallway near the coat check, where the buzz of conversation becomes a muffled hum. I pull out my phone and scroll to Aleksey’s name before I can overthink it.

It rings twice before he answers.

“What is it, Annushka ?” His voice is quieter than usual. Less sharp. Tired.

“I just…” I lean against the wall and close my eyes. “I saw you. Earlier. I wanted to talk, but it looked tense.”

“It was,” he says flatly. Then, after a pause, “I didn’t come for him. I came to check on you.”

I smile, even though he can’t see it. “I know.”

Another pause. Softer now. “I didn’t mean what I said. About your betraying the family. That was cruel.”

“It was,” I say without venom. “But I said some things too. And I know I crossed a line when I brought up your… your personal life.”

“Stop.” The word is sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not trying to push you,” I say quickly. “I’m not. I just… I know how hard it is to hide parts of yourself to make someone else happy. And I shouldn’t have used it as a weapon. It’s not my place to force you to come out before you’re ready.”

“I’m not gay, Annika,” he snaps and then immediately goes quiet.

I press my lips together. “Okay.”

It’s not worth arguing. I can hear the panic behind the anger, and I know that voice all too well—the sound of someone clinging to a story they’ve rehearsed until it feels real.

He exhales into the silence. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“I know,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

There’s another long pause, and then I say, “Lily discovered she has toes.”

“What?”

“She figured out she can reach them,” I say, a laugh slipping into my voice. “Spent twenty minutes today trying to eat them like they were a gourmet snack. Got frustrated when she couldn’t bite down.”

A pause. Then, softly, so softly, “That’s disgusting.”

I snort. “It was adorable.”

A tiny beat of silence.

“I’m glad she has you,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “You’re a good mother.”

“Thanks,” I whisper and press a hand to my heart.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s nice, actually. I miss this.

“I should get back,” I say, reluctant to go.

“Be safe, Annushka .”

“You too.”

I slip my phone back into my clutch, smoothing my dress as I head toward the main hall. The buzz of conversation greets me before I even round the corner. The music has started again, something more upbeat now that Burns is off the mic.

I scan the room—and spot Liam near the main entrance, just slipping out through the double doors alongside Senator Burns. Probably headed outside for a photo op, press shots for the campaign. Liam’s laughing at something the senator said, his hand brushing his lapel, eyes focused ahead.

And then,

BOOM.

The sound tears through the night like a crack of thunder. Screams erupt. Glass shatters somewhere. People duck and scatter, heels skidding across marble, voices shouting over one another.

I freeze.

My breath catches.

The doors are still swinging. I don’t see Liam. I rush forward, pressing through the crowd.

There’s a dark figure slumped over on the steps. I can’t see who it is.

Oh, God. What if it’s Liam?