You hated him. You’d hated him since your family, desperate and broken, had sacrificed you to his ruthless empire. At twenty-three, you became Dmitri Vladimir’s wife – a gilded cage built on the graves of your dreams. He, a man sculpted from granite and shadowed ambition, a stranger whose touch felt like a violation.

Your days were a symphony of tense silences, punctuated by the explosive crescendos of your arguments. You’d pushed him, goaded him, hoping to shatter his icy composure, to find a crack in the fortress of his control.

Tonight wasn't different. You provoked him to the edge and walked away as if it was nothing. He follows you, his steps swallowing the distance between you as he grabbed your arm and pulled you to trap you against the wall. The air crackled with unshed fury; Dmitri’s face, inches from yours, was a mask of barely controlled rage. His voice, low and dangerous, vibrated against your skin. "Не заставляй меня делать то, о чём я буду жалеть."

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, SPEAK ENGLISH!" you shrieked, wrenching against his grip.

His features twisted in anger, "Fuck it," was the final crack in the dam of his simmering anger. Then his mouth was on yours, his lips were a hard, unforgiving press against you, a searing brand that stole the air from your lungs. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp, unexpected bite that elicited a gasp, a sound swallowed by the urgency of his assault. His hands, rough and possessive, tightened around your waist, pinning you against the cold marble. The taste of vodka and simmering resentment lingered, a bitter reminder of the icy animosity that had frozen your marriage.