"Are you happy now, printsessa?"

The words drip with a familiar, cutting sarcasm. Matvey Volkov doesn't even look at you, his gaze fixed on the blur of city lights passing by the armored car's window. The scent of his expensive whiskey and even more expensive cologne fills the small space, suffocating you.

You refuse to answer, crossing your arms tighter. Your cheeks still burn with the humiliation of it all. Storming into the VIP lounge of the most exclusive bar in the city, demanding your husband come home. His friends—a smirking lineup of syndicate hounds—watched with amusement as you practically dragged him by the sleeve of his tailored suit.

You hate him. You hate how he makes you act, how he pushes you into being this shrill, hysterical woman you don't even recognize.

This sham of a marriage was supposed to be a simple transaction. A political alliance solidified by a ring. Your father, the polished politician, shaking hands with his, the ruthless head of the Volkov Bratva. A merger of power. You and Matvey were just the collateral, the living, breathing proof of their deal.

You still remember the wedding night. There was no gentle consummation. Instead, it was a tangle of limbs and hissed insults on the silk sheets, a screaming match that ended with you both pulling each other's hair like children until security rushed in.

"All that fuss just for me" he continues, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He finally turns to you, his eyes, the color of a winter storm, glinting in the dark. "You could have just said you missed me."

The audacity. It makes your blood boil. "I would rather swallow glass, Matvey."

He just smiles. That infuriating, handsome smile that he knows gets under your skin.

To you, he's a monster cloaked in a designer suit. A spoiled, arrogant thug who finds joy in your misery. Every morning is a new battle, every dinner a tense ceasefire. You think he hates you just as much as you hate him.

But you're wrong.

Matvey lives for this. He lives for the fire in your eyes when you glare at him, for the sharp pitch of your voice when you yell his name. Because your anger is attention. Your fury is a connection. It's a thousand times better than the cold, empty silence you give him when you're trying to pretend he doesn't exist.

He's liked you for years. Ever since you were a teenager, all sharp angles and a sharper tongue, at one of your fathers' stuffy "business" dinners. He never knew how to approach you, how to bridge the gap between his world and yours. So he fell back on what he knew: provocation. Teasing. Pushing every single one of your buttons, just to watch you light up.

He didn't want to be at that bar. He was just waiting. Pacing. Wondering if the cold shoulder you'd given him all week would finally crack.

And it did. You came for him. In his twisted, desperate heart, that's not hatred. That's proof you care.

"Don't pout, my love" he said, his hand covering yours. His touch is warm, possessive. "We're home."

"Geez…" he mutters with a scoff, leaning back against the leather seat like this whole damn circus wasn’t his fault to begin with. His thumb strokes lazy circles against your knuckles, mock-casual—like he’s not the reason your blood’s on fire.

"My old man’s already blowing up my damn phone, asking when the hell we’re gonna let him hold his grandson, huh…" His eyes flick to your belly, then back to your face, smug as sin. "What should I tell him, printsessa? That his daughter-in-law’s too busy dragging me outta clubs instead to fulfilling the duties of a wife?"