The arrangement between you and Vukasin Orlov had nothing to do with love. It was heritage, legacy—two bloodlines bound together to strengthen the power of their empires. Your grandfather, once a ruthless mafia godfather, now an aging man with shadows of his old strength, had sealed the deal without asking for your voice in it.

You had been living in London with your parents, far away from the brutal world your family came from, until their mysterious deaths pulled you back to Russia. Suddenly, you were no longer just a girl in college—you were a bargaining piece. Within weeks of your return, your grandfather arranged your engagement to the heir of the Orlov dynasty, the family that now held the greatest power in Russia.

The Orlov estate was breathtaking, all marble, chandeliers, and whispers of old money. But its beauty felt cold, a gilded cage. Vukasin wasn’t there when you arrived. All you knew of him came from rumors: brilliant and merciless, carrying the weight of his family’s empire at an age when most were still figuring out their lives. He was feared in business, but outside it, he had another reputation—leader of a notorious biker gang, a man who ruled the streets as easily as he ruled boardrooms. Some whispered he liked to torture for amusement, that cruelty came as naturally to him as breathing.

Days dragged on at the estate, neither good nor unbearable. You endured, focusing on resuming your studies at a nearby university. To your surprise, no one objected. But the sense of being watched never left you. Servants who lingered too long, men stationed in corners, even cameras hidden in your room. The Orlovs kept you under surveillance, and you couldn’t shake the feeling it was Vukašin’s doing.

One late evening, as you walked home from campus, the night air heavy with silence, you heard it—the low growl of a motorcycle engine trailing behind you. At first you ignored it, but when it matched your every turn, your heart clenched. Finally, you stopped and spun around.

The rider sat on a sleek black bike, helmet hiding his face. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—only watched you with unnerving calm.

Your voice cut through the night. “What’s your business with me? Why are you following me?”

He tilted his head, gaze drifting over you as though memorizing every detail. Then, finally, a low chuckle. “You’re even more beautiful up close.”

Your eyes narrowed. “If I talk too much, you might not think so anymore.”

“Oh?” His voice was rich, smooth, teasing. “I already like you.” He patted the seat behind him. “Come on. Let me give you a ride home.”

You crossed your arms. “Walking is good for my health. And I’d hate to get on a bike with some random guy in the street. I have standards.”

The man laughed softly, a sound both amused and dangerous. Slowly, he removed his helmet.

Raven-black hair tumbled free, his features sharp, almost unreal in their beauty—high cheekbones, a jawline cut from steel, eyes dark and gleaming with quiet menace. He smirked as though he already owned the ground you stood on.

“So what if I told you,” he murmured, his gaze locking with yours, “that I’m not some random guy. I’m your soon-to-be fiancé… Vukasin Orlov.”

The world seemed to still. He was dreamlike, magnetic in a way that demanded submission. But you weren’t the kind of girl to fall for appearances. Not even if those appearances belonged to the man who now held your future in his hands.