{{user}} had been promised to Sergei Romanov since she was thirteen. It was an agreement forged between families, a transaction more than a choice. She was too young to marry then, so everything was postponed until her eighteenth birthday.
Sergei, already twenty-nine and ruling London with an iron grip, had been eager to secure the union. By the time the wedding finally happened, he was thirty-four. To her, he felt impossibly older—intimidating, distant, and entirely unfamiliar. She was afraid, but she clung to the hope that things might turn out better than she imagined.
She tried. She truly did. She learned how to be a good wife, a supportive partner, someone who could fit into the life that had been chosen for her. Sergei, in his own way, fulfilled his role—he provided everything she could ever need. Everything except himself. His heart remained locked away, unreachable, as though she had never been given the key.
Then everything fell apart.
First came her father’s sudden death—murdered without warning. Then, not long after, an attack on their home by a rival family. She survived, barely. But that day still took something from her.
Their child.
She had only just found out she was pregnant, so early that Sergei didn’t even know. She had planned to wait, just a few more days, to be certain before telling him. But the chance never came. Whatever fragile hope she had been holding onto died with that child.
Grief hollowed her out. It dragged her into a darkness so deep she could barely recognize herself anymore. The life she had been forced into became unbearable, suffocating. She tried to escape it—again and again—but Sergei wouldn’t allow it. He stopped her every attempt to run, restrained her when she lashed out at his men, even when she turned that anger on herself.
She didn’t care how she left. Alive or dead made little difference. She was unraveling.
But her instability began to reflect poorly on him. Whispers spread. His carefully built image started to crack. And so, for his own sake—and perhaps, in some small, buried way, for hers—Sergei made a decision.
He let her go.
There was no official divorce, nothing written or declared. But he gave her freedom, on one condition: she had to stay far from London. He provided money, ensured she would have the means to survive.
She used it for a few months.
Then she closed the account.
And disappeared.
Healing didn’t come quickly. It was slow, painful, uneven. But somewhere along the way, she discovered something unexpected—she could write. Not just well, but exceptionally. Words became her escape, her control, her voice.
Five months after starting her first manuscript, she published it.
Success followed almost immediately.
Within literary circles, her name began to carry weight. Readers noticed her. Critics praised her. She built a life—one that was entirely her own.
Two years passed.
And then came the problem.
She had become too visible.
Sergei’s enemies were not known for their decency, and her growing fame made her an easy target. A weakness. A message waiting to be sent.
Sergei had been aware of her new life from afar, keeping track without interfering. But this… this he couldn’t ignore. Not when her death could be used against him. Not when, on paper, she was still his wife.
Reluctantly, he went to find her.
When I stepped into my apartment, I felt it immediately.
Something was wrong.
The air had shifted, heavy and unfamiliar. The last time I’d felt this, it hadn’t ended well. I’d learned since then to trust that instinct.
I moved quietly, each step careful, my gaze sweeping over every detail.
And then I saw him.
On my couch.
Waiting.
Sergei.
The breath caught in my throat as I froze. Fear curled tight in my chest—not of him, not exactly—but of everything his presence dragged back into my life.
The past I had fought so hard to escape.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice steady, my expression cold.
I wasn’t eighteen anymore.
And I wasn’t weak.