Chapter 3 - A surprise?

Martha pressed the teacup into my hand like it was a peace offering. “It’s nothing, child.”

It felt like everything.

I climbed the stairs anyway, legs heavy, pulse racing. The study door loomed at the end of the hall. Before I could knock, their voices leaked through the wood — low, sharp, dangerous.

the Russians are coming tonight.”

clear the board before they arrive.

Bratva doesn’t forgive debts.

My stomach plummeted. Russia. Bratva. Clearing the board. The words slammed together like bullets.

I knocked anyway.

Come in.

The moment I stepped inside, the air thickened. Xavier’s dark gaze snapped to me like a whip. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Those eyes stripped me bare, slow and deliberate, promising every filthy thing he’d whispered on the stairs.

Father glanced between us, voice flat. “She’s your sister.”

Xavier’s lips curved — not a smile, a threat. “Of course she is.”

I set the tray down with shaking hands. “Tea.”

Father barely looked at it. “Go get dressed. Small celebration tonight. Xavier will be joining us.”

My breath caught. “He’s staying for dinner?”

“Don’t get too excited,” Father said, already turning back to his laptop. “It’s business.”

I nodded and fled before Xavier could say another word. But I felt his stare burning into my back the entire way down the hall — hot, possessive, and far too hungry for a stepbrother.

Back in my room, the emerald silk dress waited on the bed like a trap. I slipped it on, fingers trembling over every hook. The fabric clung to my skin, cool and dangerous, the same deep green as the envy twisting in my chest.

I stared at my reflection. Pale. Wide-eyed. Painted lips the color of fresh blood. Perfect on the outside. A liar underneath.

The soft knock at my door made me jump.

Martha.

She stepped in, eyes sweeping over the dress, then my face. For once her professional mask cracked. “You look beautiful, Astrid.” Her voice was quiet. Sad. “They’re waiting in the dining hall.”

“Martha…” I grabbed her wrist. “What I overheard — Russia, the Bratva — what does it mean?”

She pulled away as if I’d burned her. “It means nothing you need to worry about. Just smile tonight. That’s how we stay safe.”

She didn’t believe a word she’d said. I saw it in her eyes.

“Go on,” she urged, nudging me toward the stairs. “Don’t make them wait. You know how your father gets when the soup goes cold.”

I took one step, then another, the silk whispering against my thighs like a secret. Somewhere below, Xavier was waiting.

And this time, I wasn’t sure the rules would survive dinner.

I walked down the grand staircase, the emerald silk of my dress hissing against the marble steps like a snake in the grass. The house felt too quiet, the air thick with the scent of expensive cigars and old, rotting secrets.

As I reached the arched entrance to the dining room, I stopped. The table was set with the fine crystal, the candlelight dancing off the silver. My father sat at the head, nursing a glass of amber liquid.

And there, draped in a chair to his right, was Xavier. He had changed into a black suit that made him look like a shadow come to life. He was spinning a heavy gold coin across his knuckles, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

When I stepped into the light, the coin stopped mid-spin. He caught it in his palm, his lips curling into that same slow, terrifying smirk.

"There she is," my father said, his voice booming unpleasantly in the quiet room. "The birthday girl. Sit, Astrid.

Dinner passed in near silence. Cutlery clicked softly against porcelain, the sound too loud in the heavy room. I barely tasted the food. Every time I lifted my eyes, Xavier was already watching me—calm, unblinking, as if my presence alone interested him more than the meal.

When we stood to leave the table, my father cleared his throat, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“This isn’t the main celebration,” he said lightly. “I have a surprise for you, Astrid.”

My stomach tightened.

A surprise?

I followed them down the corridor, confusion giving way to unease. The doors to the ballroom were already open.

Light spilled out.

I followed them toward the ballroom, my unease curdling into something far sharper. As the doors swung wide, light spilled out, blinding and cold.

I stopped short.

The room wasn't filled with the sounds of a party. There was no music, no laughter only the low, predatory hum of men in suits. They stood in clusters, clutching crystal glasses of amber liquid, their eyes weighing and measuring everything in the room.

This wasn’t a birthday. There was no cake. No joy. There was only power, and the terrifying realization that I was the reason they were all here.

My father moved ahead, already morphing into the king among his allies, clapping shoulders and sharing sharp, toothy smiles. I stood frozen, my emerald dress suddenly feeling like a neon sign in a dark room.