You had sworn, the very morning the engagement was announced, that you would despise Prince Aleksandr Volkov.

It felt safer that way—safer to shape your resentment into something bright and deliberate than to dwell on the humiliating truth that this marriage had never been intended for love.

The Prince of Russia and the Princess of Britain, bound together so that two formidable dynasties might appear unassailable to the rest of Europe.

Aleksandr had been molded for such a life since childhood. Tutors, generals, diplomats—each had carved away softness until only composure remained. He was courteous, controlled, impeccably mannered, and utterly aware of his duty.

He had not wanted this marriage; you had seen that much in the restraint of his expression during your betrothal. And yet, once the vows were spoken, he did not falter. If you were to be his wife, then he would be what he had been trained to be: a good husband.

You, however, had never been raised to be meek.

Restless and sharp-tongued, you made your displeasure evident in a hundred small ways. You mocked the stiffness of his formality and, in the privacy of empty corridors, imitated the rounded cadence of his Russian accent when he spoke English.

He was meant to steady you, to temper your fire with his calm; you resisted that balance at every turn.

Still, marriage tethered you together more tightly than pride could undo. There were shared dinners beneath chandeliers, diplomatic appearances where your gloved hand rested upon his arm, and garden walks conducted under the discreet scrutiny of courtiers who pretended not to stare.

His patience during these moments was infuriating. He never raised his voice, no matter how deliberately you tested him, and he addressed you with a softness that felt dangerously sincere.

He noticed things. Books you had mentioned once in passing appeared at your bedside. Fabrics in your preferred shade of blue were folded neatly among your things. He offered kindness without expectation, and it made your resentment harder to sustain than you cared to admit.

You hated the arrangement, hated leaving England’s familiar hills for a country whose language still slipped past your understanding. You hated feeling like a diplomatic ornament rather than a woman.

And yet, in the quiet hours, you could not ignore the small, persistent astonishment that lingered beneath your anger: he had never forced you. Not on your wedding night, when the world would have excused it. Not in the months since. Whenever you turned away, he allowed you the space.

That gentleness unsettled you more than cruelty ever could.

This morning, a maid had woken you with news that he wished to take breakfast with you in the gardens. You assumed it would be another display, some carefully arranged performance of harmony. But when the doors opened to the thawing April air, you found no audience waiting—only Aleksandr himself.

He stood alone upon the gravel path, hands clasped behind his back, posture flawlessly straight in his white uniform adorned with gold buttons and epaulettes. When he saw you, his expression softened in a way you pretended not to notice.

“Moya lyubov,” he greeted, inclining his head before offering his forearm. “There are some things I wish to discuss with you about our marriage.”

You took his arm, already knowing what those things must be—the way you withdrew from even the simplest touch, the distance you maintained, the fact that five months into marriage he knew your preferences but not your heart.

As you began to walk beside him through the quiet garden, you tried not to sigh, aware that the conversation you had long avoided had finally torn through his patience; whether he showed that or not.