Page 8 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

I hate this outfit.

Scratch that—I loathe this outfit.

The dark wig itches. The sunglasses keep sliding down the bridge of my nose.

And this obnoxiously oversized trench coat makes me look like a low-budget detective in a third-rate drama.

If Liam had his way, I’d be strutting around in one of those inflatable T-Rex costumes just to keep my identity hidden.

He doesn’t seem to understand that attention-grabbing disguises sort of defeat the point.

But I’d rather eat glass than give him the satisfaction of knowing how uncomfortable I am. So I tug the coat tighter and remind myself why I’m doing this.

This meeting—it’s not about Liam, or my father, or anyone else. It’s about me. About taking back control of my life and chasing the dreams I shelved the second Anatoly decided he knew best. I’ve waited years to be more than a pretty pawn on someone else’s board. This is my move now.

The Gilded Cage looms in front of us, dark windows glinting under the gray afternoon sky. Shane, the bodyguard Liam saddled me with, shifts uncomfortably beside me like he expects a sniper to drop from the roof.

“You sure about this, Miss Vol—uh, Ana?”

I glance at him over the rim of my sunglasses. “Yes. And it’s Annika , remember? No last names while we’re here.”

He nods, muttering something under his breath that I pretend not to hear. I don’t blame him for being on edge. We’re deep in Russian territory, and I’m the daughter of the man who runs it. But with the disguise and Aleksey’s protection, this is the safest place I could be right now.

I tap lightly on the club’s front door. It’s technically closed—daylight hours don’t exactly draw in the crowds—but a few moments later, the lock clicks and the heavy door creaks open.

Aleksey Mikhailov stands there in a fitted slate-gray button-down, sleeves rolled up, looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ. His sharp features soften into something warmer when he sees me.

“There’s my girl,” he says with a smile, stepping forward to pull me into a hug. He kisses both cheeks—gentle, familiar, and oddly comforting. “Look at you. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to avoid paparazzi.”

I snort softly. “Liam’s orders. He practically had a meltdown over the idea of my going out in broad daylight.”

Aleksey raises an eyebrow at Shane. “You must be the watchdog.”

Shane stiffens slightly. “Just here to make sure she gets in and out safely.”

“Good.” Aleksey nods. “Then you can wait by the bar while Annika and I handle business.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, just gestures me inside and leads me past the empty stage and silent dance floor, toward a private lounge area tucked behind thick velvet curtains.

The club smells faintly of citrus cleaner and the ghost of last night’s perfume—glamour on pause, waiting for the music to start again.

I sink into the plush booth seat and finally shrug out of the ridiculous trench coat, tossing the wig and sunglasses beside me.

“You look like you’re about to rob a thrift store,” Aleksey quips, settling across from me.

“Don’t start,” I warn him. But I’m smiling, just a little.

The silence that follows is surprisingly comfortable.

The kind you only get with someone who’s known you long enough to understand when not to fill it.

Aleksey leans back in the booth, watching me with that unreadable expression of his—the one that says he’s about to ask something personal, whether I like it or not.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks.

I blink. “The meeting?”

He gives a slight nod. “The meeting. The career. The spotlight. All of it. You’ve been living in Liam’s shadow the past few weeks, whether you want to admit it or not. Just making sure you’re stepping into this for the right reasons.”

My mouth feels dry. “That’s exactly why I’m here, “I snap. “This meeting is the first thing I’ve done for myself in a long time.”

Aleksey’s eyes soften and he reaches out to place a hand on my arm. “I get it. I’m not trying to bash this, just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

I nod and he brushes a strand of hair from my face. “You’ve been through it lately, Annushka. I want to make sure you’re not throwing yourself at the first open door just because you’re desperate to run.”

When he calls me by that nickname, it cracks something in me.

He’s the only person who still uses it. I feel a sudden surge of gratitude.

Aleksey has always been there for me, even when I was an awkward teenager with a notebook full of half-finished lyrics and dreams that were way too big for our father’s empire.

“I’m not running,” I promise him. “I’m trying to make something of myself. And I want to do it on my own. Even if I fail, I fail on my own terms.

Aleksey smiles slowly. “Then I’ll stand behind you. You know that, yeah?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. I know.”

Just then, the curtain rustles and a crisp voice cuts through the moment.

“Annika Volkov?”

I look up, jaw dropping. There she is. In the flesh.

Ingrid Gunnerson.

Poised, powerful, and dressed like she walked straight off the set of some Mad Men type show in her tailored pantsuit. Her platinum blonde hair is slicked back into a low chignon, and her pale blue eyes sweep over me with calculating interest.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

This woman, I decide within five seconds, is not the type of woman you waste time lying to.

She moves like she owns the room. Her confidence isn’t loud or flashy, just there, stitched into the seams of her fitted cream blazer and the sharp click of her heels against the floor. Why throw around theatrics when every glance, every word, is clearly measured, and intentional.

“Miranda Voss told me you were someone worth meeting. I listened to your Soundcloud. You’ve got some true, raw talent. I can take you places. But I want to know what it is you want, Annika.”

I nod, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been singing and writing music for as long as I can remember. I want a career I can be proud of,” I tell her. “Not some flashy pop princess image crafted by my father’s goons. I want to be heard, and I want to do it on my own terms.”

Ingrid leans back, studying me. “And what exactly are those terms?”

I hesitate. “I want to be honest in my music. I want to perform. Maybe release an EP. Play small venues, build real momentum. I don’t need to be some kind of mega superstar. I just want a chance to be heard.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, drumming her nails against the table. “Ambitious. But grounded. I like that. Still, if you’re serious, you need to be all in. No running back to your father or your little Irish protector when things get tough.”

Her words feel like a slap to the face, but I force myself to hold her gaze. “I’m not going back.”

“Good.” She raises one eyebrow. “Because this business doesn’t reward the faint of heart. We all have things we have to do to survive, Miss Volkov. Sacrifices to make. You need to be prepared for that. Just how far are you willing to go?”

There’s something in her voice that makes me pause. Like she knows that cost intimately. I don’t ask. Not yet. But the weight of it settles between us, sharp and silent.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” I insist. “I don’t need my hand held. I’ve been around my father’s world my entire life. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Ingrid studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nods slowly and rummages through an enormous handbag before pulling out a tablet and placing it on the table in front of her.

She flips the cover open and drags her finger across the screen, and begins speaking.

“I’m setting you up to perform as the opening act for one of my smaller clients at White Swan Cafe,” she says, referencing a local music venue.

“This is just to gauge interest in you, see what kind of audience we can lure in. We’ll go from there and see how it goes. Sound good?”

I nod, heart thudding. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Ingrid doesn't look up as she taps through a few more screens, her expression unreadable. “You’ll need to put together a thirty-minute set—covers are fine, but I want at least two original pieces. Think of it as your soft launch. This isn’t about going viral.

This is about proving you can command a room. ”

“I can,” I say, sharper than I meant to. But I mean it. I need this.

She finally meets my eyes again, and something shifts, a flicker of approval that’s barely noticeable but it’s enough to make me sit up a little straighter.

“I’ll have my assistant send you the details,” she continues. “Clean up your social media. I don’t want any times to the Volkov name if we can help it. You’ve got one shot to make a first impression. Don’t waste it.”

My breath slips out in a slow woosh as I give her a weak smile. “Thank you. I won’t.”

Ingrid reaches into her bag again, this time pulling out a sleek leather folder. She lays it on the table with care, flipping it open to reveal a contract already filled out in crisp, professional print.

“This is a short-term agreement,” she explains. “It gives me and Arctic Snow Records the right to represent you for a trial period—just long enough to see if we’re compatible. Standard language. You’re free to walk away after the term if things don’t work out.”

She slides a pen across the table.

“This locks in your slot at the White Swan Cafe and gives me the green light to start building a brand around you. If you're serious, sign it. If you're not…” She tilts her head. “Well, I’m busy. And I don’t do charity.”

My hand hovers over the pen for half a second, the decision weighing on me.

But the truth is, I already know the answer.

So I sign on the dotted line, a mix of confidence and anxiety swirling about in my gut.

“Good,” Ingrid says quietly, closing the folder with a soft snap. “Welcome to the music industry.”

She rises, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “My assistant will be in touch by tonight. Be ready.” She walks off without looking back, the swish of the curtain the only sign she was ever there.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the ink on the page like it might come alive and bite me. Then I hear the faintest rustle behind me.

“You didn’t even read the fine print.”

I jump a little as Aleksey steps out from behind one of the floor-to-ceiling velvet panels. He’s been there the whole time, probably lurking in the shadows like some kind of protective, judgmental ghoul.

I roll my eyes. “I skimmed it.”

“You don’t sign anything in this city without reading it twice.”

“You sound like Papa,” I mutter.

He frowns at that, stepping closer. “ Annushka . Women like Ingrid don’t do anything out of the goodness of their hearts. She’s smart, ruthless, and calculated. If she’s investing in you, it’s because you’re a piece of something bigger. Just don’t forget that, okay?”

I cross my arms. “That sounded an awful lot like scare tactic talk. Pretty sure that’s how all record execs play the game.”

“This isn’t a marketing strategy,” he says. “It’s a warning.”

I look at him for a long beat, then reach for the stupid wig and coat Liam made me wear.

“Warning received.” I tug the wig into place and pull on the coat. “But I’m still showing up.”

Shane and I leave together, and he escorts me back to Liam’s place, only taking off when I’m stepping into the foyer.

The apartment is quiet when I slip inside, the door clicking shut behind me.

I’m still in full disguise—itchy wig, oversized coat, sunglasses and all—too tired to shed it yet. I drop my purse on the counter and glance around, expecting silence.

I’m startled when I see Liam leaning against the kitchen island, a hand on his hip. “Well, well. Who do we have here?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

My heartbeat picks up, and I feel a flush ripple over my skin. “You have no idea who I am?” I ask, my successful meeting giving me a nice boost of confidence.

“Maybe you and I could get to know each other then, sweetheart…” Liam suggests, trailing a finger down my arm.

I grin.