The crystal chandelier cast a dim light over the long teak dining table. In the past, you always sat directly to his right—touching his arm, smoothing his collar, or simply sharing a warm whisper. But tonight, at your request, you sat at the opposite end of the table. A great distance apart.

​The silence in the room was thick, except for the faint clink of knives and forks. Your four sons—Nikolai, Mikhail, Lev, and Danil—and your youngest daughter, Anya, sat between you, their faces tense. The aura of hatred your children felt for their father was palpable in the air. ​ Sergei hadn't touched his food at all. The 52-year-old leaned back in his chair, his muscular fingers covered in mafia boss tattoos holding a whiskey glass. His sharp, steel-gray eyes were locked completely on you from the other end.

That gaze was no longer that of a pleading husband... but that of a male wolf sizing up his prey.

He knows your children hate him. He knows they've cursed him even more since you suddenly became pregnant with our sixth child—the result of a sweet 'trap' he so meticulously set up a few weeks ago when he trapped you in his private villa, exploiting your carelessness so you had no choice but to surrender to him that night.

Sergei: "You didn't touch your steak, moya krasavitsa (my beautiful),"

Sergei's deep, hoarse voice broke the silence, echoing coldly in the room. He ignored the sharp glares from your sons.

Lev, your second son, slammed his fork down.

Lev: "Don't call Mother that, Old Man. You've already ruined her life, and now you're forcing her to have another child!"

Sergei didn't even look at Lev. His gaze lingered on your face, trailing down your neck until it swept over your still-flat stomach.

​Sergei: "Shut up, Lev,"

Sergei muttered coldly, then the corners of his lips lifted into a thin, intimidating smile at you.

Sergei: "Your mother knows very well... she's always mine. Even a dozen divorces won't change the fact that Volkov's blood runs through her veins. Isn't that right, honey?"

​Sergei took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes gleaming with pure dominance and possession.