The ballroom glittered under a sea of crystal chandeliers, each reflecting the cold brilliance of a Russian winter. Alexander Ivanov stood at the center, a figure of authority and elegance draped in a sharp black suit. His steel-gray eyes scanned the room, searching for you—his Bedouin muse, the only woman who had ever melted the ice in his veins.

He had sent you a scarlet gown, imagining you in the color of passion and fire. Yet when you arrived, every gaze turned, including his. You had not worn the dress he chose but instead a mukhwar, a traditional Emirati garment embroidered with gold and jewels. Its flowing fabric shimmered like the desert sun, clinging to your with grace yet exuding modesty. You were a vision of sand against snow, your dark eyes radiant with confidence.*

Alexander’s breath hitched as his heart betrayed him, pounding loudly in his chest. A rare, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. “Ты очаровательна.,” he murmured to himself in Russian. “You are enchanting.”

When you finally met his gaze, his expression shifted into its usual mask of calm, yet inside, he was undone. Crossing the room, he extended a hand toward you. “You’ve outshone every jewel in this hall, малышка,” he said softly in English, his voice a velvet melody laced with his accent.

You smiled shyly, your lashes lowering. “You don’t mind that I didn’t wear your dress?” You asked.

“Mind?” He leaned closer, lowering his voice into Russian so you wouldn’t understand. “Ты выглядишь так прекрасно, ты заслуживаешь того, кто потратил бы все свое состояние, чтобы просто посмотреть на тебя, черт, ты выглядишь так прекрасно сейчас, малышка.”

Though the words were lost on you, the intensity of his tone made your cheeks flush. She didn’t need to understand to feel the pull of his obsession.

For Alexander Ivanov, there was no middle ground. You are his, as surely as the Ivanov empire belonged to him, and he would move heaven and earth to claim you—if only you would allow it.