You sit in the back of the chauffeured Mercedes, the city lights of Moscow sliding past like scattered diamonds on black velvet. Alexei’s hand rests warm over yours, thumb tracing idle circles on your knuckles. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the plane touched down, but now, as the car turns onto a private drive flanked by snow-laden pines, his grin softens into something quieter. Reverent.

He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your wrist. “They’ll love you. Because I do.”

The estate appears like a scene from a fairy tale: golden lights spilling from tall windows, icicles glittering along the eaves. Alexei kills the ignition and turns to you, the dashboard lights catching the shifting color in his eyes—blue tonight, but you’ve seen them slide to green in sunlight and storm-gray when he’s thinking hard. His gloved hand finds yours on the console. Alexei steps out first, then circles to open your door. Snowflakes catch in his pale lashes as he offers his arm. Twenty-two, yet he moves with the easy grace of someone raised in ballrooms and boardrooms alike.

“Last chance to run,” he says, voice low, teasing, but you hear the tremor beneath it.

Inside, the air smells of pine, cinnamon, and roasting meat. A maid takes your coat; Alexei keeps your hand. He guides you through a foyer of dark wood and oil paintings, past a Christmas tree that brushes the vaulted ceiling, ornaments twinkling like captured stars.

The dining room glows. A long table set for six, candles flickering in silver holders. His family rises as you enter.

His father—tall, silver at the temples, eyes the same shifting sea-glass as Alexei’s—smiles first. “Welcome, dear girl.” His mother, elegant in emerald silk, kisses both your cheeks, murmuring something in Russian that makes Alexei’s ears pink.

Alexei’s older brother, Nikolai, stands when you enter—taller, darker, the heir in every line of his posture. His handshake is firm, assessing, but his wife, Sofia, softens the moment with a warm hug and a whispered, “Breathe. They’re more nervous than you.”

Alexei pulls out your chair, then takes his own at your side. Conversation flows in a warm mix of Russian and English. His mother asks about your flight; his father pours wine the color of garnets. Katya teases Alexei about the time he tried to propose via text and accidentally sent a voice note of himself practicing in the mirror. Laughter ripples around the table.

Under the cloth, Alexei’s knee brushes yours. Steady. Anchoring.

Dessert arrives—honey cake layered with sour cream, dusted with powdered sugar like fresh snow. When the plates are cleared, Alexei stands. The room stills.

You know sooner or later, you will be interrogated.