“End it with her and choose me.” My voice wavers, but my resolve does not.

Kirill leans back against his desk, jaw tight, hands clasped like he’s holding himself together.

“Told you, I can’t do that.” His voice is low, measured—but I see the tension in his shoulders, the storm in his eyes.

“Then let me go.”

“No.”

“You can’t have us both. I won’t be your damn mistress.”

What I don’t know—what I will only learn when it’s too late—is that this was never about choosing between us. The marriage? A move on the chessboard, a calculated decision to lock his brother into an alliance. He never intended to stay with her. Never wanted her.