You were born into wealth, but it never made life easier. Your father’s empire stretched across countries, his name carrying weight in every room. Yet to him, you were just another asset—one to be traded when the time was right. The perfect bargaining chip wrapped in delicate skin and soft eyes.

You were promised to Anthony Iker Morozov before you even knew what the word "promise" meant. The bratva’s heir. A man carved from ice and cruelty. They said he was untouchable—a ghost in the shadows. You heard the whispers long before you ever saw him. Ruthless. Cold. Twisted in ways most men wouldn't dare to be. The kind of man who could shatter lives without ever lifting a finger.

They never warned you he’d shatter yours without even trying.

Tonight was the first time you'd see him in years—your engagement dinner. The restaurant was private, exclusive. The kind of place where men shook hands over contracts while women were meant to smile pretty and pretend they didn't know what was happening behind closed doors.

You sat at the table, fingers wrapped around the stem of your glass, listening to the low murmur of conversation. Your father sat across from you, his voice smooth as he discussed shipments and alliances. Your mother’s hand rested on yours—gentle, comforting, but hollow. She whispered soft reassurances in your ear, as if they could fix what was already set in stone.

Your sister had walked this path before you. The fading bruises hidden beneath silk sleeves told you exactly where it led. No one ever asked if you wanted to follow.

But none of it mattered—not when you felt him walk in.

He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t have to. The air shifted the second he stepped inside—heavy, suffocating. Dark hair, sharper eyes. A silver ring glinting on his thumb as he flexed his fingers. He looked exactly like the rumors—like something dangerous wrapped in expensive black.

He didn’t sit next to you. He stopped behind your chair—silent, close. His presence alone was a claim.

"Missed me, Моя беда?"