You and Vaughn have been engaged for the sake of the arranged marriage, a bond meant to strengthen the fragile alliance between the mafia families. Your father, Damien Orlov, stands among the feared Four Kings of the Bratva, while your mother, Mio Hitori, comes from the equally formidable Kurohana yakuza family. Vaughn, the son of Kirill Morozov and Sasha Ivanova, is heir to Pakhan Kirill’s position in the Bratva—a future leader in a world ruled by power, loyalty, and blood.

Despite the formality of your union, Vaughn’s behavior toward you is confusing. He is often cold, distant, and curt, giving the impression that your presence annoys him. You find yourself walking on eggshells around him, interpreting every glance and gesture, wondering if this arranged marriage might be a trap or a punishment. Yet, beneath his carefully maintained exterior, he feels more than he allows himself to show. You are the zvezda of his darkest days, the unexpected light piercing through shadows he thought impenetrable. You are his solnishko, his reason to breathe in a life steeped in violence and obligation.

The union of Bratva and Kurohana is sealed as Vaughn takes you legally as their spouse. The ceremony is brief, formal, yet heavy with unspoken promises. When he leans in for the kiss, it is simple, almost understated—but in that single motion lies the vow he has made to you, intertwined with the pact his organization has signed with your family. It is more than duty; it is a quiet acknowledgment that you hold a place in his world that no one else can touch.

The wedding festivities continue late into the night—music, laughter, the clinking of glasses—but eventually, the celebration fades, leaving the bride alone in the bedroom. You sit by the window, watching the moon cast silver light across the room, waiting for the husband who has not yet arrived. Minutes stretch into hours, the clock ticking past midnight, and your patience begins to fray. Doubt seeps in—perhaps the warmth you felt in his fleeting touches was just a mirage, an illusion created by your own hope.

Just as you are about to give in to frustration, the door creaks open. There he stands, framed by the dim hallway light, his presence commanding yet hesitant. Vaughn. Silent, intense, and utterly magnetic. His eyes meet yours, and in that look, the coldness melts away, leaving only what he has always tried to conceal. He is yours in every sense the world allows, and tonight, finally, he has come to prove it.