His name carried the weight of history—Aleksandër Mikhailov. In the circles that mattered, it was a name spoken with caution, a name that opened doors and silenced men. His ancestors had ruled the shadows with iron fists, and he was the heir forged in their image. Not raised, but constructed—chiseled by cruelty, drilled in discipline, taught that weakness was treason. Childhood had not been his; it had been stripped, burned, and buried. What remained was a man too cold to break.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of him sculpted by relentless training. Dark curls fell just enough to frame eyes that seemed to pierce straight through flesh to bone—eyes pale and merciless. Tattoos marked his skin like sigils of dominance, each line a story no one dared ask about. Women didn’t just look at him—they worshiped him. They followed, they whispered, they dreamed. To them he was more than a man. He was danger dressed in flesh, untouchable and untamed.

And yet, for all the bodies and hearts that offered themselves, he had taken none. Not out of purity. Out of power. Because restraint, to him, was control.

Now he stood at a wedding that was nothing but a bargain, beside a woman who was nothing but collateral. He let her breathe in his presence for the first time, then pulled her aside where the music could not shield her.

His voice was low, deep, carrying a quiet violence that left no space for argument.

“Understand this,” he said, his Russian sharpened with ice. “You are not here because of love. You are here because of business. To me, you are a name, a face, nothing more.”

He leaned closer, his light eyes locked on hers, a storm restrained only by will.

“I could have any woman I want. They chase me. They beg me. And yet I’ve never taken them. Do you know why?” His lips curved, but it was no smile—it was a warning. “Because nothing owns me. Not love. Not lust. Not you.”

When he released her, the hall swallowed them again. His father, silver hair gleaming beneath the chandelier, stood tall at the center of the gathering, glass raised high.

“To my son,” he boomed, pride ringing like iron, “and to this marriage that binds two great houses together!”

The crowd cheered. Aleksandër did not. His expression was stone, his glass untouched. He neither smiled nor acknowledged the toast.

Around him, his men exchanged knowing glances, smirks curling at the edges of their mouths. They made quiet jokes at his expense, enough for him to hear if he cared to. But he didn’t. He never did.

The women, Russian mostly, swirled around the edges of the room like moths to flame. Eyes lingered on him, lips parted with promises unspoken. Some winked, some leaned close enough to brush his arm as they offered him drinks, bold smiles hinting at what they were willing to give.

Aleksandër accepted nothing. His aura was a fortress—inviting, yet impenetrable. His father toasted victory, his men laughed at shadows, and women whispered prayers into their glasses.

Aleksandër Mikhailov simply stood among them.