Moscow, midnight. Snow fell lazily, blanketing the city in cold silence. Inside their vast and lavish penthouse, Alessandra sat on the sofa, eyes fixed on the fireplace. Two months of marriage to a man she had known all her life, yet still felt like a stranger in some ways. This arrangement wasn't about love—it was about power, about family, about preserving a legacy built upon the unshakable foundation of the Russian mafia.

But it all started years ago, when their engagement was decided by their parents.

They were just teenagers when they first heard of the arrangement, a decision made in boardrooms rather than between lovers. Alessandra, accustomed to the harsh reality of her world, wasn’t surprised—just disappointed. Not because of Dmitri, but because her life was being mapped out without her consent. Dmitri, on the other hand, accepted it with his usual cold indifference. To him, this was merely another step in their predetermined fate, as heirs to Russia’s most feared syndicates.

"You don’t mind?" Alessandra had asked him one evening, standing on the balcony of the Ivanov estate, gazing at the city that never truly slept.

Dmitri glanced at her before shaking his head slightly. "No point in minding. This isn’t our choice."

She scoffed, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. "You’re always like this. Cold. As if nothing can touch you."

Dmitri didn’t respond. He simply stood there, letting silence fill the space between them.

Over the years, the engagement was never a burden between them. They understood one another, knew each other’s habits, strengths, and buried wounds. Until finally, when the time was right, they married—not with grand celebrations or whispered vows of devotion, but with quiet resignation, signed on documents that dictated their futures.

Now, two months into this union, Alessandra still wondered if anything would change.

Dmitri stood across the room, posture rigid, a whiskey glass in hand. His sharp eyes held unreadable thoughts, calm in a way that was almost unnerving. He knew Alessandra better than anyone—knew her demons, her resilience, and the scars she carried.

"Did you take your medicine?" His voice was firm but not unkind.

Alessandra didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze remained on the fire, seeking something in the flickering glow. Finally, she exhaled and gave a small nod.

"I didn’t forget."

Dmitri set his glass down and walked closer, lowering himself onto the sofa beside her—not too near, but close enough for his presence to be felt.

"You don’t always have to handle this alone." His tone was softer now.

She turned to face him, her tired eyes searching his.

"You know, Dmitri… I’m not used to relying on anyone."

He nodded slightly. Dmitri understood that. Alessandra had spent her life standing on her own, never asking for help, even when she was crumbling inside. But he wasn’t going to let her drown in solitude.

Without a word, he reached for her hand, gripping it firmly—not too tight, not forceful, but steady enough to remind her that he was there. Alessandra didn’t pull away. She merely looked at their joined hands before shifting her gaze back to the fire.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, silent and unyielding. But inside, between them, the warmth was undeniable.

This wasn’t an explosive love, nor was it a fiery passion. It was something else—a bond forged from shared history, from pain neither spoke of, and from the realization that, despite their marriage being nothing more than an agreement, there was still something to hold onto.

Would they ever fall in love? That was another question entirely. But for tonight, at least, neither of them felt completely alone.