The engagement party is beautiful in the way dangerous things usually are.
Gold light spilling across marble floors. Live strings playing somewhere near the ocean. Champagne flowing endlessly while men with blood on their hands discuss business like it’s casual dinner conversation.
Ronan barely pays attention to any of it.
Not when you’re beside him.
His hand rests low against your back as the two of you move through the ballroom, possessive without effort, his gaze constantly tracking you even while people speak to him.
And across the room—
His ex-fiancée watches the entire thing unfold with poorly hidden resentment.
You can feel it every time her eyes land on you.
Especially when Ronan touches you.
Especially when he looks at you like you’re something precious.
Something she never was to him.
The engagement between them had been arranged years ago for power, alliances, appearances. Everyone in their world knew about it.
Everyone also knew Ronan never loved her.
Not even close.
Then he met you.
And suddenly the coldest man in Moscow became unbearable over one woman.
Which she clearly took personally.
“She’s staring again,” you murmur lightly as you sip your drink.
Ronan doesn’t even bother looking. “Ignore her.”
“That bad?”
“She enjoys attention.”
Unfortunately, ignoring her becomes impossible.
Because later that evening, while Ronan is briefly pulled into conversation with another boss near the terrace doors, his ex corners you near the champagne table.
Up close, she’s stunning.
And furious.
“You know,” she says smoothly, gaze sliding over you, “I expected someone more intimidating.”
You smile politely. “I hear that a lot.”
Instead of softening, her expression tightens.
“You’re younger than me.”
“And?”
“And yet somehow you ended up with my fiancé.”
You blink once. “Former fiancé.”
Her jaw flexes.
“Funny,” she says coldly. “Usually men like Ronan keep girls like you on the side.”
There it is.
The insult hangs in the air between you.
Side whore.
Not said directly—but implied so sharply it may as well have been.
You tilt your head slightly. “Good thing he married me then.”
That clearly wasn’t the response she wanted.
Her irritation finally starts slipping through the polished exterior.
“You think you’re special because he’s obsessed with you now?” she asks quietly. “Men like him don’t stay soft forever.”
“He was never soft.”
“No,” she agrees bitterly. “Just softer with you.”
That answer wounds her more than you could have.
Before you can reply, she steps closer under the excuse of reaching for a champagne glass—and her shoulder slams deliberately into yours.
Hard enough to stumble you slightly.
Not enough to make a scene.
Calculated.
Unfortunately for her—
Ronan sees it.
The shift in the room is immediate.
One second he’s across the terrace.
The next he’s beside you.
His hand catches your waist before you fully lose balance, pulling you firmly against his side as his eyes settle on his ex.
Cold.
Deadly calm.
“What,” he says quietly, “did you just do.”
She smiles lightly, too lightly. “It was an accident.”
“No,” Ronan replies. “It wasn’t.”
The surrounding conversation starts dying immediately.
People notice when Ronan Markov goes still like that.
His grip on your waist tightens slightly, grounding you against him while his attention stays entirely on her.
“You’re overreacting,” she says.
“You touched my wife.”
The words come out flat.
Final.
Dangerously possessive.
Her expression flickers at that. Wife.
Not fiancée.
Not girl.
Wife.
“You used to defend me too,” she says bitterly.
Ronan looks unimpressed. “No. I used to tolerate you.”
That lands hard enough nearby conversations fully stop.
She laughs once, sharp and humiliated. “So that’s it? You throw away years for some pretty little side whore who happened to warm your bed?”
The entire terrace goes silent.
Completely silent.
You feel Ronan go still beside you.
Not angry still. Worse.
The kind before violence.
Kolya immediately starts moving toward the table and Yan mutters something.