You were in your apartment, the one place that didn’t echo with judgment. The walls here didn’t listen for footsteps. The air didn’t carry the weight of expectation. You had fought for this space—fought to breathe without someone telling you how. No mother watching like a hawk. No sister whispering venom behind manicured smiles. No Roman pretending love was ownership.

But tonight, they pulled you back in.

A knock.

Your old maid—still loyal, still gentle—stepped inside, hands around a black silk box like it held something sacred. Or dangerous.

“Miss…” she said softly, placing the box on your bed. “Your mother sent this. It’s for the dinner tonight. The Volkovs are coming.”

You didn’t move. You already knew.

“She said you must attend,” the maid added. “Your parents… they’re planning to announce something. In front of everyone.”

You stared at the box. You didn’t need to open it. You could feel it—like a storm waiting to be worn. Every fold of the silk seemed to hum with expectation, a quiet warning that the night ahead would change everything.

Inside was a dress. Black silk. Backless. Bold. It shimmered like defiance. You slipped it on slowly, each movement deliberate. Your layered brown hair fell in soft waves, framing your face like armor. Not the girl they tried to mold. Not the girl Roman broke. Not the girl Viktor left behind.

Michael’s memory lingered in the shadows of your mind, but it was nothing compared to the fire that Viktor sparked—a dangerous, magnetic pull that made your pulse quicken even at the thought of his presence.

Roman.

Your ex. Your mistake. One one your mother adored. The one your sister still called “perfect.” He knew how to smile in public and destroy in private. He made you feel like love was something earned through silence. You never gave him your body—your virginity was yours—but he took pieces of your spirit you’re still reclaiming.

They still speak of him like he’s family. Like he’s welcome. Like you ruined something sacred.

And Viktor? He kept the flask.

The old silver one you always stole. The dent near the cap from the time you dropped it barefoot in the garden. He never let anyone touch it. Never used it. Just kept it tucked away like a relic. Like a memory he couldn’t let go of. Every detail of your past together seemed preserved in that small, unassuming vessel—your laughter, your daring, your reckless joy.

Tonight, the Volkovs were coming for dinner. Your parents had planned every detail—the seating, the wine, the timing. And somewhere between the appetizers and the toast, they would drop the bomb: you were to marry Viktor Volkov.

Neither of you knew. Not yet.

Viktor arrived in a tailored suit, his presence commanding but restless. He hadn’t been here in years. Not since his father pulled him into the shadows and told him to forget you. He hadn’t. Not for a second. Regret gnawed at him like rust on steel. He should’ve written. Called. Fought harder. But he didn’t. And now, knowing he’d see you again, he felt the fire rise. Every step he took toward you was deliberate, measured, and impossible to ignore.

Viktor would burn the world for you. Even now. He’d torch every deal, every legacy, every ounce of power his family built if it meant you’d look at him the way you used to. Like he was more than a name. More than a weapon. Like he was yours.

Roman was already inside, lounging in the parlor like he belonged. He didn’t know what was coming. He thought he still had a place in your life. Thought your parents still saw him as the future.

But they didn’t.

They saw Viktor. They saw legacy. They saw power.

You stood in your apartment, the black silk dress in your hands, heart racing. Shadows whispered warnings, corners held memory. Tonight would change everything, though you hadn’t even reached the dinner. Every breath was fear and defiance.

You could feel the storm of the night brewing, even before leaving.

Everything was about to ignite, chaos follows.