CHAPTER 3

NIKOLAI VOLKOV

CURRENTLY…

"Idiot." Now I knew that no Harrington forgets an offense. And Victoria, with her false ethereal beauty and her sick pride, was the worst of them all. That was not a simple "no." To her, it was a declaration of war. And today, forced to marry the sister she despises, I see with absolute clarity: this is her revenge.

She couldn't have me, so she binds me to a "deformed" woman to punish me. She makes me the husband of the woman who is a symbol of everything she considers inferior, just to remind me, every day, that in the end the one who was rejected was me, by her. The bitter taste of humiliation burns my throat as I cross the inner courtyard, and every glance from the servants who look away seems to confirm what I already know: I am the target of a cruel joke that the whole city will savor.

"Damned." The word echoes in my mind now as I enter the mansion's hall. The crystal chandeliers cast distorted shadows over the polished marble, and each of my steps reverberates like an omen. I clench my fists until my knuckles turn white, feeling my nails dig into my skin.

Then the memory of what happened last night replaces the vision of the gates.

VICTORIA'S 23RD BIRTHDAY PARTY…

The invitation was a trap so obvious that even a green Bratva recruit would have been suspicious. But my arrogance—the same one that made me believe a "no" would be enough—was greater. I accepted.

Now I know it was all a plan, a plan of social annihilation, engineered with a cruelty that even I, on my worst days, would admire.

The Harringtons had two problems to solve. The first was Victoria's sick obsession with revenge. The second was the "burden" that was the eldest daughter, Angeline—the young woman with the marked face who stained the "perfect" image they cultivated so carefully. A shame they hid in the darkest corners of the mansion, far from the eyes of the high society they fawned over. To them, she was a mistake to be corrected, a stain on the impeccable lineage they built with money and appearances. A daughter who should never have been born, kept in the dark like a dirty secret.

Their ambition was twofold, and brilliant in its perversity: to get rid of Angeline by marrying her to an influential man who, once bound to them by the blood of a marriage, would bring his power to the clan. And, at the same time, to give Victoria and her parents the perfect sadistic revenge: to force Nikolai Volkov onto a "deformed" woman they themselves brought into the world and raised as a nobody. I would be the trophy and the punishment, all in one blow. And at the center of it all, the rejected daughter would be used as a pawn, with no one asking what she wanted.

At the party, Victoria greeted me with a smile as sweet as poison, her icy blue eyes fixed on me. She offered me a glass and asked for a toast—a salute to our "lasting friendship," she said, her voice honeyed. Which I, idiot, drank. I felt the cold liquid go down my throat, and for a moment I still thought I might leave that night unscathed.

The drug was potent, colorless, odorless. It did not take long for the world to start spinning, the lights to blur into smeared stains. I felt the floor give way beneath my feet.

"You don't look well, Nikolai," I heard Victoria's voice, feigning concern. "Let me take you to a room so you can rest."

My vision was already darkening. I felt her arms wrap around me, guiding me. The last coherent thought I had was of pure contempt for my own weakness. Then, only darkness…