The long dining table gleamed beneath the chandelier, its polished surface crowded with crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and carefully arranged plates of food that had been prepared for the occasion. It was not simply a family lunch. It was a negotiation disguised as one.

Two powerful families had gathered in the spacious dining hall, their presence filling the room with a quiet weight that had little to do with the elegant surroundings. At one end of the table sat the Russian side of the gathering, the family tied to the Bratva. Opposite them sat your family, known for influence that reached far beyond business circles and into places few outsiders ever saw.

Between them sat the reason for the meeting.

Your older sister, poised and composed in a dark dress, listened attentively as conversations moved around the table. Across from her sat the man she was expected to marry—Yulian Morozov’s younger brother, only two years his junior, the future bridge between the two families.

The discussions had started politely but carefully. Agreements, expectations, territories, alliances—every word carried weight even when it was spoken casually over lunch.

You remained quiet through all of it.

Seated beside your sister, you focused mostly on the plate in front of you, eating slowly while the adults around the table spoke. It was easier that way. The conversation was not meant for you anyway.

From further down the table, Yulian Morozov watched you once or twice.

He said little during the meeting. Today was not about him. It was his younger brother’s arrangement, his brother’s future being negotiated between families that both understood power better than affection.

Still, his sharp grey eyes occasionally drifted toward you, studying you briefly before returning to the discussion.

When the main course had finished and the conversation began to loosen slightly, Yulian’s father leaned back in his chair.

“Let us have a drink,” the older man said in Russian-accented German, his voice calm but firm. “A toast to new family.”

A servant immediately stepped forward, moving smoothly around the table with a bottle and crystal glasses. One by one, each person received a drink until the glasses stood filled before them.

You looked down at yours.

The dark red liquid reflected the chandelier light faintly, untouched.

Across the table, hands began to reach for glasses as chairs shifted.

“Come,” someone said warmly. “To the engagement.”

But your fingers never moved toward the glass.

Your gaze remained fixed on it instead, quiet and uncertain.

From his seat, Yulian noticed immediately.

His brow lifted slightly, eyes flicking from your untouched drink to your still hands.

For a brief moment he said nothing.

Then he leaned forward.

Before anyone had fully raised their glasses, he lightly tapped his own against yours with a soft clink.

The motion drew a few brief glances from the others.

Without explanation, Yulian calmly took your glass from the table. In one smooth motion he drank the contents of his own glass first, then yours, setting both empty glasses back down.

A faint crease appeared on his father’s forehead.

Yulian didn’t look bothered.

“Bring grape juice,” he told the servant beside him casually. “For her.”

The servant nodded quickly and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Within moments, a fresh glass was placed before you, filled with dark purple juice instead of wine.

Yulian gave the glass a brief glance, satisfied, before leaning back in his chair again.

“Now,” he said calmly to the table as conversation resumed, “we can toast properly.”

And just like that, he returned to discussing business with the others as if nothing unusual had happened.