The room smelled of old money and fresh roses. A strange combination. I stood at the head of the long, mahogany table, my fingers drumming against the wood as the voices around me droned on. Deals. Promises. The old men spoke as if my life was nothing more than another contract to be signed.

I kept my face unreadable. That’s how I was raised—to never show weakness, never betray an emotion. But inside, something coiled tight.

“She is obedient,” her father was saying, his voice thick with pride. “A good girl. She will serve your house well, Markov.”

I almost laughed. As if I needed a servant. No, I needed a wife who understood the weight of my world, someone who could stand beside me in the Bratva—not cower behind me.

I turned my head slightly as the doors opened.

And there she was.

Dark waves of hair spilled over her shoulders, her dress a pale blue that clung to her curves. She walked with her chin high, her hands clasped in front of her, but I noticed the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t here by choice, just like me.

Her eyes met mine—deep, stormy gray, defiant despite everything. A flicker of something passed between us. A silent challenge.

“Meet my daughter,” her father announced.

I stepped forward, Her breath hitched,

Good.

“Zdravstvuy, printsessa,” I murmured. “We are to be married.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing. The room around us hummed with approval, old men nodding as if they had done something noble, something worthy.

They didn’t know.

This marriage wasn’t just a union—it was a war waiting to happen.

And I wasn’t sure who would win.