Chapter 28

Laura

THE CLOCK on the wall chimes nine. Its sound is rich, like everything else here.

Two hours in, I’m frozen in place, like a rag doll set out for show.

Finally, our twelfth dish makes its grand entrance, a delicate dessert that looks more like art than food.

The Michelin Star chef himself emerges from the kitchen. This culinary wizard, with sleeves rolled up over tattooed arms and stubble shadowing his jaw, looks like he’s just won a battle as he sets down a plate of tiny, almost laughable pastries.

“Our finale,” he announces, “a deconstructed tiramisu, paired with a raspberry coulis and a quenelle of white chocolate mousse. And for our young miss,” the chef declares, “we’ve specially prepared an alcohol-free Chocolate Degustation. Please, enjoy.”

I bite back a laugh, puzzled by the tiny portions.

Mental note: Rich folks have weird standards for what counts as food.

In my head, I’m calculating if I’ve eaten enough to qualify as a full meal by any standard. Spoiler: I haven’t. The thought crosses my mind that anyone normal would find this dining experience utterly ridiculous. Twelve courses, and I’m still fantasizing about a late-night burger run.

I scowl, realizing a late-night burger run is off the table. I’m trapped here; no two ways about it. I did all this, walked straight into danger, now putting Ser and her family in danger because of me.

Sitting here, surrounded by the Morozov Bratva clan, I never thought I’d be breaking bread—or tiny, artistic twelve-course meals—with gangsters.

Ser would’ve penned an entire novel by now, something about a vampire preparing for a wedding feast where the bride unknowingly stars as the main dish.

Thinking about Ser squeezes my heart tight, sparking a silent wish to see her again.

I let out a covert sigh, messing with the cutlery like it’s a puzzle.

I feel them around me; the table’s under a spotlight of glares, especially from the far end where a brunette and a dark-haired woman sit, their thick makeup hiding any genuine emotion. The weight of their stares makes my skin prickle.

They catch my eye, whispering something to each other before erupting into fake laughter.

“Yeah, thrilled to be here too, ladies,” I silently jeer. Victor skips the introductions, diving straight into the meal like it’s just another Sunday brunch.

But then, what’s the point? We’re only pretending. I’m not his real bride-to-be.

I dodge the icy stares with a swift glance, my eyes quickly shifting away from the mean girls.

Among them, a man catches my attention—quiet, his gaze fixed ahead, not with the chill of a hitman, but with a blend of sorrow and strength.

I take a nervous sip of water and follow his gaze to the head of the table, to Andrey Morozov himself. He’s talking to Victor, both of them holding themselves like they own the world.

Clearly, Victor inherited his stunning looks from his father.

Despite his years, Andrey exudes an air of command that’s hard to ignore, his suit crisp, his bearing one of innate leadership. His whole vibe screams “battle-hardened,” but it’s the unexpected softness in his eyes tonight that throws me.

My eyes wander, settling on Victor. He’s undeniably handsome, features cut sharp and unmistakably masculine.

Holy smokes! Is that jawline chiseled out of marble, or what? Looks like it could cut glass.

The way it clenches when he’s focused. Heat crawls up my cheeks, uninvited.

Then, abruptly, he turns, our eyes lock, and I’m caught.

Fuck, fuck, shit.

Panic flutters in my chest, and I blink rapidly, turning away as my fingers find refuge in twisting a lock of my hair

Thank God Eli’s excitement rescues me from being busted for ogling Victor. “Look at this, Laura!” Her wonder’s infectious. Her eyes light up like it’s Christmas, almost bouncing in her seat. “Wow, they’re so pretty!” she bursts out when the server places the plate before her.

I lean toward her, forcing a smile. “They really are, aren’t they?”

It’s the least I can do, giving her a moment in this madness. My mind’s racing, still struggling to make sense of it all.

As I lift my gaze, it clashes with Ksenia’s. That dead stare of hers hits me again before she shifts her attention to the young man sitting opposite her.

He’s striking, resembling a model straight off a runway with his sad, dark gray eyes. He acknowledges Ksenia with a subtle nod, then immerses himself back in his phone.

Seriously, is there a factory churning out these ridiculously handsome men around here?

I can’t help but wonder about his identity, noticing he carries the same frosty aura as Ksenia.

Seriously? Luar?

This is not the right time or place for eyeing men like I’m flipping through a catalog.Did I not remember that in just three days, I’m about to tie the knot with a Russian mafia boss?

And Dad… How on Earth do I break this to him, or to anybody, for that matter?

I find my fingers nervously playing with the fork, aimlessly tracing the outlines of a tiny, leftover flower garnish from the last course, almost like I’m trying to dissect its secrets.

“Ma’am,” a server gently cuts through my daze, skillfully sliding a new plate in front of me while whisking the old one away. “Your dessert,” he announces.

“Thanks,” I grunt to the server as he sets down what’s supposed to be the grand finale of a meal.

My eyes can’t help but flick over to Victor. He’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He has his sleeves rolled up to his forearms; those ridiculous, stupid large arms with veins standing out as if carved from stone, annoyingly, turn on a feeling I can’t shake.

My throat suddenly feels dry, and without thinking, I swallow hard, trying to ease the tightness between my legs. My body is reacting without my control.

Okay, it’s clear now—I’ve totally lost it. How am I getting these… these tingles from a guy who’s practically kidnapped and forced me into a marriage I never asked for?

A hushed sigh slips out as I tackle the miniature dessert with a fork that feels like it’s made for ants.

I nudge that tiny dessert into my mouth, and— Holymotherofgod, my tongue just had an orgasm!

“Mmmm…” I groan, licking my lips to savor the lingering taste of tiramisu. One bite, and it’s all gone.

“That was a quick trip to heaven,” I murmur, sliding the fork out of my mouth.

I raise my eyes, and there he is, watching.

His stare travels from my lips up to my eyes. Hard, deep, and like a predator.

A sultry heat weaves through my bloodstream. I’m melting quicker than ice cream on a hot day.

Damnit, Laur, get it together.

I break his stare. “Ex-excuse me, restroom … break,” I manage to stammer out as I push my chair back. My body is on fire, and all I can think about is getting away from him.

“Let me walk you there,” Victor says, standing tall, quieting the entire room.

“I can find it myself,” I whisper back, attempting to maintain some distance between us. But who am I kidding? Victor is going to get what he wants.

Without hesitation, he extends his hand, and I know it’s not a request. It’s a demand.

Looking up at his big, strong body, my face flushes hot, and my heart does a little tap dance. A sudden wave of desire hits me like a fiery burrito from last night’s Taco Tuesday.

Goddamnit, Laur.

Cursing under my breath, I clench my jaw as I refuse to hand over my hand. But he just smirks and challenges me with a look. “You’ll get lost on your own,” he teases.

Before I can object again, I’m stopped short. “Eh-hmm,” an awkward interruption from Andrey Morozov makes me shift my gaze, my lips pressing together tightly. The Morozovs’ eyes are on us, silent and assessing, except for Eli, whose yawn breaks the tension momentarily. I divert my gaze, feeling out of place.

I bite my lip down, my eyes flicking elsewhere, knowing I’d really rather be anywhere but here. With a reluctant sigh, I give in, placing my hand in his. His grip is surprisingly comforting, a solid presence amidst my inner chaos.

Yet, the moment is fleeting. Victor’s hand encases mine, a smirk touching his lips as he whispers close, “There’s my good girl.”

“I’m nobody’s ‘good girl,’” I retort softly.

“Excuse us,” Victor announces to the room, leading me away with a confidence that draws every eye.

I hear my heels gently clicking onto the marble floor as Victor leads me out of the dining hall, our bodies brushing against each other with every step. I can feel the tension and desire building.

But I know better than to give in. This may be just another one of Victor’s manipulative tactics, using me to appear even more powerful and desirable.

Jerk.

I let him lead me toward a corridor, its walls mirrored from end to end. Catching our reflection, I barely recognize myself beside him. The old Laura, in casual wear and untamed hair, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there stands a woman who looks like she has it all together—poised, polished, and paired with a man who could be straight out of a magazine.

For a second, the image captivates me.

For a second, I look like someone with a perfect life.

I clench my jaw, reminding myself.

This isn’t my life. It never will be.

No matter how tempting the illusion may be.

Chapter 29

Laura

“WHERE’S THE bathroom?” I demand, trying to break the silence that’s settled between us.

Victor gives me a look, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Thinking of making a run for it? It’s a long way to the nearest Starbucks, just so you know.”

I snort. “Please! Like I could escape. I’d probably get lost in your closet.”

He shoots me a roguish smirk, the kind that spells trouble and has temptation written all over it, then steers us both away from the dining hall, guiding me deeper into the mansion’s maze-like corridors.

Walking through this mansion feels like trekking across a small country, except with more chandeliers and less fresh air. We stroll past guards who nod like they’re part of the royal guard and maids with smiles so fixed, I wonder if they’re superglued on.

The place is so stuffed with luxury it’s like breathing in dollar bills—suffocating and slightly absurd. The endless parade of rooms and corridors starts to blend together into one big, lavish blur.

Victor glances at me, a flicker of knowing in his eyes.

“You don’t need the bathroom,” he says, his grip on my hand firm yet not unkind. We’re close, our bodies nearly touching as we walk.

“Maybe I do,” I say, frustrated. I’m making a valiant attempt to yank my hand back, but let’s face it, in this tug-of-war, I’m as likely to win as a Chihuahua in a heavyweight boxing match. My hand in his feels like a peanut tucked in the palm of a giant—Luka’s hands could probably double as catchers’ mitts without anyone batting an eye.

“Let go of me.”

“Not happening.”

Fine, I quit. Picking battles wisely is apparently a skill I need to sharpen, especially around him.

“You know, a few signs wouldn’t hurt. I’ve officially lost my breadcrumbs back to the dining hall.”

He aims a quick glance at me. “You’ll learn your way around soon enough. You have a year to get used to this place,” Victor says with that chilly detachment of his.

“Oh, joy. A whole year to become a human GPS of the Morozov Manor. Can’t wait,” I retort.

His lips twitch; a hint of a smile, maybe? Or a prelude to a snarl. With Victor, it’s hard to tell. “Enthusiasm. I like that,” he deadpans, leading me down another corridor that looks like all the others—gold, gaudy, and grossly grand.

I bite my lip, pondering over the contract, the wedding, the entire bizarre scenario I’ve found myself in. Questions swirl in my head like a particularly annoying swarm of bees, but fear clamps down on my tongue. What does one ask a mafia lord about a contract that’s more a leash than a legal document?

“So, about this wedding…” I begin, but my voice trails off. The words feel like boulders, too heavy to haul into the open.

Victor’s gaze flickers to me, and for a moment, I see the shift—from the lord of the manor to the predator assessing its prey. It’s a look that says I’m playing a game whose rules I don’t quite understand.

“What about it?” he prompts. As he says this, his grip on my hand tightens, almost like he’s worried I’ll bolt at the first chance.

“Should I expect doves, or is that too ‘subtle’ for the Morozov flair?”

He hesitates for a moment, considering. “Actually, we lean toward dragons, but it turns out they don’t follow directions well,” he jokes, guiding me through yet another lavish hallway.

“Didn’t realize you had a sense of humor,” I remark, keeping my tone light despite the swirling questions about the contract, the wedding, and what my future holds in this gilded cage.

Two maids approach and Victor’s demeanor shifts to his usual jerk self. He doesn’t smile or make eye contact.

We turn a corner, and the corridor narrows. The decorations here are sparse, a stark contrast to the lavishness we’ve left behind. The air grows cooler, the ambiance shifting. My curiosity is piqued despite my apprehension.

“Seriously, where are we going?”

Victor pauses before a door that seems ripped from a history book, all aged wood and iron. He lets go of my hand, pushing the door open. No eerie creak follows, just a silent swing that reveals a room unlike any other in the mansion.

“Victor, this doesn’t look like any bathroom I’ve ever seen,” I remark as I step into the room.

The walls are lined with family photos in black and white, their edges yellowed with age, the faces stoic. I can’t help but wander closer, drawn to the dates marking monumental moments—World War I, World War II.

I turn, taking in every detail, and I notice more than just photographs. Every item in the room is thoughtfully arranged.

There’s a display of antiques: a vase with intricate patterns, a statue of a Chinese horse that looks like it belongs in a museum, and newspaper cuttings framed on the wall, telling stories of past glories and tragedies.

My steps slow as I approach a massive wall filled with faces from another era, their expressions captured in grayscale. My eyes scan the dates, each one a gateway to a story long concluded.

“Are these your ancestors?” I ask, unable to hide the awe in my voice. My jaw slackens as the magnitude of history before me sinks in. This room isn’t just utilitarian; it’s also a personal museum, showing off the Morozov Bratva’s legendary history that goes way back.

Victor is behind me, watching, a hint of pride flickering in his eyes.

“Every family has its guardians of history.”

“But… why are you… showing these to me?” Whipping around, I shoot him a questioning look.

There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Patience, little firecracker.”

It’s like my heart’s caught in a high-speed chase as I watch him lock the door with purposeful clicks.

He turns and starts walking toward me; his intense stare travels up and down my body, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

I can’t tear my gaze away from his; shock courses through me as my body betrays me, my nipples hardening into tight peaks. A surge of intense heat ignites between my thighs, causing me to gasp for air.

I press my lips together, mustering every ounce of fake confidence I have.

“Planning to lock me up in some secret chamber for a year?” The question flies out before I can stop it, suddenly feeling way too real.

Inside, I’m practically screaming. A million and one thoughts ricochet through my mind.

Victor just strides closer, a predator in a suit. Before I know it, he’s in my personal space.

I instinctively step back until—thud.

My head nearly collides with the wall, but his hand is there, cushioning the blow. Great, now he’s literally the only thing standing between me and a concussion.

He’s so close I can count the threads in his suit.

“Why? Do you want to get locked up in a secret chamber?”

My eyes narrow. “Asshole,” I snap back.

Victor’s eyebrows raise. “Let me remind you, asking too many questions isn’t exactly healthy around here.”

I’m breathing heavily, staring into those goddamn captivating, wild gray eyes.

“You don’t scare me,” I bluff, quickly dropping my gaze to avoid those intense eyes, landing on his chest instead. Big mistake. His chest looks like it’s straight out of an action hero’s wardrobe, all muscle and no fluff.

“Back off, or I swear—

Victor laughs, low and husky. “Warnings from you sound more like invitations.”

Pushing against what feels like a marble statue, I try to regain some personal space.

To my utter shock, he takes a step back, his smirk turning into a twisted grin. “Remember that fire when we fuck. Let’s see just how explosive you can be, little firecracker.”

What the hell did he just say?!

My blood runs cold at the suggestion, and I open my mouth to protest, but his hand shoots up toward my face.

Great, now he’s going to silence me the old-fashioned way.

I flinch and brace myself to scream, but… instead, his fingers brush past my ear, and there’s this beep sound. Like magic, the wall behind me shifts, and I’m falling backward, only to be yanked back into his arms.

He’s got me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and all I can think is how absurdly good he smells—like sin and something spicy, a scent that makes me want to forget why I was mad in the first place.

Victor steadies me with a firm grip.

“Let’s go,” he says, his voice steady. I catch his gaze, then turn around.

“What the…?” I stumble over my words.

Chapter 30

Laura

“WELL SLAP me sideways,” I blurt out, my eyes darting between Victor and the entrance to this hidden passage to the unknown.

I’m trying not to let my jaw hit the floor because the wall, along with its parade of antiques and family history, just vanishes like a magic trick.

“You actually have a secret chamber down there?” My voice sounds as brave as a kitten in a dog park. I glance down at the passage that’s suddenly revealed, its tiles so intricately detailed and historic, they’d put the finest gallery to shame.

“Come with me,” Victor commands, his hand a steady presence on my back, guiding me forward as my body trembles with a cocktail of emotions. My mind’s racing with wild, not entirely appropriate fantasies about what might lie beneath us.

This can’t be real, can it? What if there’s a secret BDSM lair?

As we step down, Victor’s hand clasps mine, providing some warmth in the chilly air surrounding us like a cloak. Suddenly, a high-tech sensor goes off, and the door—excuse me, wall—seals us inside. The loud click makes me shiver, along with the cold draft coming from somewhere.

My eyes are wide, every sense on high alert. “Victor, you need to tell me where we’re going,” I demand.

Rooted to the spot, I make it clear—I’m not taking another step until he gives me an answer.

“My father built this chamber for my mother,” he reveals, his voice softening with nostalgia and sorrow.As he talks, he nudges me forward, guiding me down the steps with him.

“Your mother?” I blurt out, trying to connect the pieces. There was no older woman beside Andrey at the family dinner tonight.

Holy fuck, did his dad really lock his mom in a secret underground chamber?

Nervously, I nibble at my lip, eyeing him. My imagination kicks into overdrive, spinning out all kinds of dark scenarios.

He chuckles. “You’ve got it wrong,” he says, his gaze fixed ahead as we keep moving down. The dim light throws his face into shadow, showing a hint of something sad I hadn’t seen in him till now.

And now he can read minds. Great.

“She’s dead,” he states simply, a flicker of vulnerability in his voice that he quickly smothers.

I feel a twinge of unexpected empathy.

My curiosity about her death, appearance, it all bubbles up, but I push it down.

Not the right time, Laur.

“I’m sorry,” I offer softly, squeezing his hand in mine. “Lost my mom young too.”

We stare at each other for a moment, a glimpse of something on his face—a flicker of shared understanding, maybe—before he masks it with that familiar stoic veneer.

“It happens.” He shrugs, his voice flat as we make our way down the cold stairs. “People die.”

“Achoo!” The sneeze rips through the silence, bouncing off the walls.

Great, just what I need at this time. A bloody sneeze.

Embarrassed, I blush. Great timing, really, showing I’m not all tough.

His mouth quirks up on one side, and he drops his jacket on me. It’s warm. I try to keep my guard up, but it’s hard with his coat around me.

I push away the soft thoughts, trying to remember we’re in a mess, not a date.

“So, are you ever going to tell me where we’re heading?” I shoot him a side glance, trying to muster a bit more boldness in my voice.

Before Victor can respond, he comes to a stop. I quickly turn my attention forward. An archway looms into view, reminiscent of a Moroccan palace, its tiles a riotous explosion of bohemian hues.

I blink rapidly, my mind racing to process the visual feast before my eyes.

“Holy—” I manage to choke out. This isn’t just a chamber; it’s Aladdin’s cave on steroids.

I’m standing here, totally gobsmacked.

Jewelry—more jewelry than I’ve seen in my life—spills from every shelf. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, diamonds gleaming like stars plucked from the sky. Even the watches look like they could fund a small country.

Victor could’ve told me we were crashing the treasure room of some ancient royalty, and I’d nod along. The place is dripping in so much bling it’s like Scrooge McDuck decided to diversify into jewelry.

My idea of wealth is a fully stamped coffee loyalty card. This? This is another universe.

I can’t help but think that my own jewelry collection is pretty much a set of pearls from Mom and… Oh yeah, a gold wedding band from my fake ex-husband.

“Hold on,” he commands, his voice a low growl that prickles my skin.

Frozen in place, I watch Victor stride off, swiftly punching in a sequence that hushes the shrill alarms. “They belonged to my mother,” he murmurs, a rare softness seeping into his tone.“Papa… He…” Victor begins, and right away, there’s a slight shift in him.

He rakes his fingers through his hair and surveys the room with a swift look, his gaze darting from corner to corner as if searching for something unseen.It feels like he’s about to share something he’s not used to discussing.

It pulls me in, even though every logical part of me screams to run from anything tied to the Morozov Bratva.

We lock eyes, and something shifts.

His gray eyes, normally hard and distant, warm up a bit. He steps in, not like he’s marching to battle, but like he wants to actually talk. Head tilted, he looks more human, less ice. Weird how there’s suddenly this vibe between us.

“Papa liked to shower her with gifts, but she hardly wore them,” he reveals, managing a brief, soft smile as he looks at the collection. For a moment, he appears more human, less the mafia jerk I was dragged here to marry.

“But… why? What…?”

He stops in front of me.

I have to tilt my head up just to meet his eyes. My lips are shivering, and it’s not from the cold or fear but from the undeniable, crazy desire zapping between us, strong enough to rival any fictional tale I’ve scoffed at before. Is this the universe’s way of saying “never say never?”

“Choose something for our wedding.” His words snap me back to reality, and he gives me this nod.

I shoot him a wide-eyed stare, totally blindsided by his offer.

“Anything?” I squeak out.

“Yes,”

Hold on, Luar.

This has got to be a trap. He’s probably got cameras ready to catch me pocketing a diamond the size of a golf ball.

My jaw clenches as I struggle to control my emotions. “I… I don’t want it,” I choke out.

But then my eyes are drawn to something, something that catches the light and glitters like shards of glass. My gaze locks onto the necklace hanging by the mirror—elegant curves and shimmering silver making everything around it pale in comparison. And there, dangling from a delicate chain is a teardrop-shaped diamond that seems to hold me captive. It’s not just the size or sparkle that captivates me, but the sheer effortless beauty of it all—simple yet mesmerizing.

“I don’t need any of this,” I say, firm despite the teardrop necklace catching my eye. I force my attention back to Victor, serious.

His eyebrows shoot up like he’s genuinely surprised.“Interesting. Why?”

He steps closer, his presence commanding. Instinctively, I take a half-step back, not ready to bridge the gap just yet.

“Most women would kill to have any piece of this beauty.”

“Well, I’m not most women,” I fire back, my hands finding their way to my hips in defiance.

“You’ll look bare without jewelry at our wedding,” he observes coolly. As if we’re debating if the Earth is round or flat instead of this forced marriage.

“Our… wedding?” A mocking laugh escapes me. “Bare or not, I didn’t choose this.”

When he doesn’t answer, irritation flares up inside me like a brushfire.

“You forced me into this marriage, remember?” My eyebrows knit together in a fierce glare.

“You signed the contract willingly,” he counters, picking up a large green emerald and brushing off the invisible dust before he puts it back into a glass casing.

“Oh, right, because threatening my best friend is just your twisted version of courtship,” I snap, my arms crossed tightly.

He moves in, and suddenly I’m hit with his scent—like danger had a one-night stand with a men’s cologne ad. It’s so overtly masculine that my ovaries are doing somersaults.

“Yes, I did,” he admits without a hint of regret. “And I’m not sorry.”

Right when I’m ready to explode, he drops this bombshell on me.

“I need you to marry me so Papa can get his surgery,” he admits, brushing away a strand of hair falling in my face with a surprising gentleness.

“Excuse me, what now?” The fight in me starts to fizzle out, confusion taking over.

He hesitates, a rare break in his usually unflappable demeanor. “The old man had a stroke,” he finally says, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. “Stubborn bastard won’t get the help he needs unless I’m tied down.”

I scoff, shaking my head.

It’s a twisted kind of logic that makes my head spin. From threatening my friend to a forced marriage with a somewhat noble intent, it’s a lot to process.

“But… why would someone like you not have options?” I push, my voice barely hiding the twinge of… is that jealousy?“Plenty of women would kill for your attention.”

Quietly, he moves toward the display case, his back to me, and I can’t help but watch the confident, assured way he holds himself.

“I don’t know about killing. But you’re right; there’s no shortage of women throwing themselves at me,” he says, turning back to me with the necklace in hand, his confidence as palpable as the chilled air between us. “But marrying any of them? Having little Victors running around? No, thank you. I’d rather jump out of a plane without a parachute.”

I can’t help but snort at the image of mini-Victors terrorizing the world. “So, what? You’re just going to use me as a baby-making machine to appease your father?”

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that sends shivers over my skin. “Tempting, but no. I have other plans for you, little firecracker.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at his words. “Plans? What, like being your arm candy and smiling prettily for the cameras?”

He steps closer, his eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous. “Oh, you’ll be doing a lot more than just smiling, Laura. Trust me on that.”

I see the hunger in his eyes, the raw desire that threatens to consume us both. And despite every instinct telling me to run, to fight, I find myself leaning into his touch, craving more.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

“We need each other,” he says, closing the distance between us.

He gently turns me around to face the mirror. His broad frame overshadows mine, our eyes clashing in the mirror’s reflection.

The way he dubs me “little firecracker”—it’s a mix of annoyance and allure. When he lifts his hand, the barely-there brush of his knuckles at my neck ignites a rush between my legs.

Seeing our reflection together, his proximity isn’t just disarming—it’s charged. As he loops the necklace around me, his fingertips graze my skin, then looks straight into my eyes.

“You’re the perfect choice,” he murmurs as the clasp clicks shut.

I clamp down on my lip, looking at him. A tingling warmth spreads from my heart to my veins.

“And this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he secures the teardrop earrings, “is just for a year. Then you’re free—freedom and financial woes, all solved.”

And there it is, the crux of it all.

He’s standing there, telling me he’s as trapped by this situation as I am—we’re both prisoners of this forced marriage.

Victor looks from my eyes to the necklace and takes a deep breath.

“My mother’s favorite,” he says quietly, almost reverently. “She called it ‘tears of a princess.’”

I reach out, fingers grazing the diamond. It’s not screaming for attention, just elegantly lying there, shining against my skin. The light catches it just right, showing off its masterful cut—quiet but undeniable quality.

Now I’m wondering about Victor’s mother, the woman who wore this before me. A Pakhan’s wife—was she pushed into marriage like I am? What was she like? How did she end up… dead?

“You…” Victor pauses, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “look beautiful.”

“Thanks…” I mutter, feeling a blush heat my cheeks, eyes darting away.

Victor takes a few steps back and heads toward a dark drawer on the other side of the room. I hear him open it, then close it. He turns back to face me, hesitates for a moment, then walks back to where I am. He’s standing close to me now, close enough for me to see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Without saying a word, he opens the box in his hands.

I hold my breath as I wait to see what’s inside… I mean, I know what’s inside.

Victor steps over, standing close to me, and there it is, the most stunning ring I’ve ever seen.

“Oh, my God.” My eyes widen, not just from the sheer beauty of it but from the realization of what this represents.

“This was hers, too,” he murmurs, his voice low.

I’m frozen, caught in the gravity of the moment, the ring sparkling as if it contains a piece of the night sky itself.

“Victor, I…” My voice trails off, words failing me.

Oh God, this is the biggest rock I’ve ever seen.

He steps closer, his hand reaching for mine. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as if he’s giving me the chance to pull away. But I don’t.

Instead, I let him take my hand and slide the ring on my finger. The pink diamond lights up the room, a dazzling display of wealth and power. But as it settles, the weight of it becomes apparent, both physically and metaphorically.

This ring, this moment, it’s not a promise of love or devotion. It’s a shackle, a gilded cage meant to bind me to him, to his world.

And as I stare at the glittering stone, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made a deal with the devil himself. A deal that will cost me more than I ever could have imagined.

The ring fits perfectly, like it was made just for me. But perfection, I’m learning, comes at a price.

And I’m not sure I’m ready to pay it.