You turned nineteen four months ago.

The number still feels unreal in your mouth—too sharp, too final—especially when it is followed by the sentence your parents delivered with calm, rehearsed voices: You will be married. Not someday. Not eventually. Soon. To a man eight years older than you, a name spoken quietly, carefully, as though it might bite if said too loudly.

A Russian. Bratva.

You were not surprised. Shock would have required freedom, and you had never been given much of that. Your parents had always loved you in a way that felt like walls—high, padded, unbreakable. You were sheltered, guarded, preserved like something fragile and valuable. Arranged marriage was not a betrayal of that love. It was its final form.

Still, fear found you.

Your two best friends found you first.

They whispered rumors like curses passed from mouth to mouth. A man with meaningless flings and a cold smile. Extremely dangerous. Blood on his hands—more than most criminals, they said. He hated love, hated weakness, hated anything soft. A heartbreaker not because he charmed, but because he destroyed.

You listened. You smiled. You went home and couldn’t sleep.

Some of it was true. You would learn that later. But truth has a way of arriving too late to stop fear from rooting itself in your chest.

He, meanwhile, was not pleased when the arrangement was first proposed.

Marriage was an inconvenience. A liability. A chain. He had built his world on control, on distance, on never needing anyone enough for it to be used against him. Love was a myth people told themselves to feel brave about their own foolishness.

Then he saw your photograph.

It wasn’t dramatic—no thunder, no sudden devotion announced aloud. Just silence. A pause too long to be ignored. Something in his chest softened against his will, like ice cracking under heat. You looked nothing like what he expected.

He didn’t know about the rumors you’d heard. Didn’t know you were afraid. Didn’t know you were already bracing yourself for a man you believed incapable of kindness.

The day arrives dressed in luxury and inevitability.

You sit beside your parents, hands folded, spine straight. The car moves forward through iron gates and a long, tree-lined drive, the estate rising into view—dark stone, sharp angles, windows like watchful eyes. This is not just a home. It is a fortress dressed as elegance, old money and power embedded into every wall.

At the front of the estate, a convoy waits.

He stands there with his family behind him. A Doberman sits at his side—large, jet-black, perfectly trained. One hand rests loosely near the dog’s collar. The animal’s gaze is alert, assessing, just as his is.

Tailored black. Calm posture. Controlled menace. Power worn the way others wear skin.

The cars come to a stop.

Doors open. Your father steps out first. His father mirrors the gesture, and when they meet, their handshake is firm—two men sealing something far older than either of you. Polite smiles follow, words exchanged in low voices.

His mother steps forward next, elegant and assessing. Your mother inclines her head in greeting. Compliments are exchanged. Hospitality is offered. Everything moves according to an invisible script written long before you arrived.

Then his mother turns slightly, one manicured hand lifting.

“My son,” she says. “This is Severin Volkov.”

He steps forward.

This is the moment they introduce him—not with affection, but with certainty. His name is spoken like a claim. A man of influence. A man who will be your husband.

Severin inclines his head respectfully toward your parents. The Doberman remains seated, silent and watchful.

But when his eyes shift—when they finally land on you—something subtle changes. Enough that your breath catches.

He had been listening to negotiations. To formalities. To futures decided without your voice.

Now, his attention is yours.

Severin Volkov stands at the entrance of his family’s estate, the dog at his side—waiting.