The mansion was never silent. Even at midnight, the distant shuffle of guards, the faint hum of security cameras, the soft tick of the grandfather clock filled the halls.

The heavy oak door to Sergei’s study was cracked open, just enough to let a slice of golden light spill into the corridor.

Inside, Sergei Sokolov stood behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos crawling like serpents over muscle. His grey eyes burned as they fixed on the man kneeling before him—an intruder, gagged, blood dripping onto the Persian rug.

Anastasia stood nearby, a vision of icy composure. She wore a silk robe, but her expression was sharper than any blade. She wasn’t horrified by the scene; she was calculating, as if the blood on the carpet was merely another line in a balance sheet.

“You thought you could touch my family?” Sergei’s voice was calm—terrifyingly so. He crouched, lifting the man’s chin with the barrel of his gun. “Did you think my son would be easy prey?”