Chapter Four

The Petrova gala smells like champagne and blood.

Not literal blood. Nothing so crude. The Morozovs are far too polished for visible violence. But power has a scent if you stand close enough to it. It smells like money layered over old ambition. It smells like men who shake hands while calculating where to bury you.

The ballroom is a cathedral of glass and gold. Chandeliers descend in glittering tiers, light catching diamonds at throats and wrists. Women in silk and men in tailored suits orbit one another like celestial bodies pretending not to collide.

And I stand at the center of it, wearing Viktor Morozov’s name around my neck like a jeweled leash.

His hand rests at the small of my back. Not tender. Not intimate. Strategic.

A claim.

“Smile,” he murmurs without looking at me.

I do. Even though all that passed through my head at this moment was to point a gun to his head and pull the trigger.

I have practiced this smile in mirrors since the wedding. Soft. Controlled. Gracious. It reveals nothing.

“You are representing this family tonight,” he continues calmly. “You will not embarrass me.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“I won’t.”

His fingers press slightly into my spine, just enough to remind me of my position.

“I am aware that my son will be present.”

There it is.

My pulse stutters but my smile does not falter.

“Yes.”

“You will behave accordingly.”

“I always do.”

He turns his head then, finally looking at me. His eyes are pale and unreadable beneath the ballroom lights.

“Do you?”

The question lingers between us like a blade. Which leaves me wondering what exactly was his deal with my parents? Was it really for power? A high position in the business world? Or something else entirely?.

Before I can answer, we are approached by a cluster of investors and politicians. Viktor shifts seamlessly into his role. Powerful. Commanding. His voice carries authority without ever needing to rise.

“This is my wife, Elena,” he says at one point.

Wife.

The word feels foreign every time.

Their gazes slide over me with curiosity disguised as politeness. I know what they see. Young. Beautiful. Calculated acquisition. They are trying to determine whether I am decoration or strategy.

I incline my head gracefully. Speak when addressed. Offer intelligent but measured responses.

Viktor watches me from the corner of his eye the entire time.

Evaluating.

Approving.

Or searching for cracks.

The room shifts subtly when Roman enters.

It is not dramatic. There is no announcement. No grand entrance.

But people notice.

They always do.

He moves through the crowd like something carved from darker material. Black suit. Crisp lines. Controlled stride. He doesn’t look at me immediately, which somehow feels worse than if he had. I do not want him to even look at me. Not when I’m nothing but a puppet to his father.

He speaks to a cluster of men near the bar. His posture is relaxed but his gaze is sharp. Observing. Absorbing.

And then, eventually, inevitably, his eyes find mine.

There is no warmth there.

Only assessment.

Only quiet disdain. A look that says everything and nothing at the same time.

Viktor notices.

Of course he does.

“Roman,” he calls.

Roman approaches with unhurried precision.

“Father.”

“Elena.”

He says my name without inflection.

Not affection. Not anger.

Just acknowledgement.

I hate how much that hurts. And why does it hurt?

“You will accompany Elena while I conclude discussions with Minister Sokolov,” Viktor says. It is not a suggestion.

Roman’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“If that is your wish.”

“It is.”

Viktor’s hand leaves my back.

The absence is immediate. Stark.

And suddenly I am standing beside the man who once knew how I breathed in the dark.

We walk without touching each other.

Without speaking.

The orchestra swells in the background, strings gliding through something dramatic and old. I wanted to say something, ask him about that night. If he knew who I was before, if he ever regretted that night….

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Roman asks finally. Bringing out from my pool of thoughts.

His tone is neutral. Polite.

Strangers would never hear the edge.

“It’s beautiful,” I replied. Even though I wanted to say something more.

“Yes. You always did prefer beautiful things.”

I glance at him.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means you look comfortable here.”

“I am doing what is required.”

“You always were good at that.”

There is accusation beneath the calm.

We stop near one of the towering windows overlooking the snow-lit courtyard.

“Do you hate me that much?” I ask quietly.

He studies the crowd instead of me.

“Hate is inefficient.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

He finally turns his head.

His eyes are cold enough to frost glass.

“I think you are exactly where you wanted to be.”

The words strike harder than I expect.

“You think I wanted this?”

“You married him.”

“My family….”

“Your family,” he interrupts softly, “has always known how to survive.”

“And so have you.”

A pause.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I have.”

Silence stretches again.

I can feel his restraint. It hums beneath his skin.

“Does it bother you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“That I’m his wife.”

His gaze drops briefly to the diamond at my throat. A gift from Viktor. Large. Impressive. Heavy.

“It doesn’t matter what bothers me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” His voice lowers. “Because we are strangers and that’s what we will ever be, and besides, you made your choice.”

The orchestra shifts into a slower piece.

Couples begin moving toward the dance floor.

Viktor’s laughter echoes from across the room. Deep. Controlled.

Roman follows my line of sight.

“He seems pleased.”

“He is expanding into new territories.”

“Yes.” His expression sharpens. “He does enjoy expansion.”

The implication is deliberate.

My cheeks heat despite myself.

“You’re cruel.”

“No,” he says calmly. “I’m observant.”

A young woman approaches him then. Tall. Elegant. Moves with Confidence.

“Roman,” she says warmly. “You promised me a dance.”

He doesn’t look at me when he answers her.

“Of course.”

He offers his hand.

She takes it.

And just like that, I am dismissed.

I stand frozen as he leads her onto the floor.

He dances flawlessly. Controlled. Precise. His hand rests at her waist in a way that is familiar and distant at the same time.

He does not look at me.

Not once.

But I feel it.

Every deliberate movement.

Every calculated laugh.

Punishment.

I turn away first.

I find Viktor at the center of a small group, discussing infrastructure contracts. His hand extends toward me as I approach.

“Come.”

He pulls me gently but firmly into his side.

“You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

He studies my face for a beat longer than necessary.

“Roman can be abrasive.”

“I can handle him.”

“I expect you to.”

His fingers adjust the necklace at my throat. The diamond catches the light.

“You represent stability now,” he says quietly. “Do not forget that.”

Stability.

The word feels like a cage.

The evening stretches on.

Roman does not approach me again.

But I feel his presence everywhere.

In the curve of every shadow.

In every reflection.

In the tightness in my chest.

When the gala finally concludes, snow has begun falling again.

The ride back to the mansion is silent.

Viktor reviews messages on his phone. I watch the city lights blur past the window.

“You performed adequately,” he says at last.

Adequately.

“Thank you.”

“You will continue to do so.”

“Yes.”

He glances at me then.

“And you will not mistake my patience for blindness.”

My breath catches.

“I don’t understand.”

His gaze lingers just long enough to unsettle me.

“Good.”

The mansion looms ahead.

Cold. Massive. Watching.

Roman’s car is already in the drive.

Inside, the house is dimly lit.

Viktor retires to his study without another word.

I climb the staircase slowly.

Halfway up, I hear it.

“Enjoy your evening?”

I stop.

Roman stands in the hallway above, jacket removed, tie loosened slightly. The controlled heir, but less polished now.

“Yes.”

“With him?”

The question is quiet.

“Yes.”

He descends two steps.

“Does he make you feel powerful?”

“I don’t need him to.”

A faint shift in his expression.

“No,” he agrees. “You never did.”

We stand suspended between floors.

Between past and present.

“You could have told me,” he says suddenly.

“Told you what?”

“That you were desperate.”

The cruelty is surgical.

“I wasn’t desperate.”

“You married a man four decades older than you.”

“To protect my family.”

His jaw tightens.

The air changes.

He steps closer.

Not touching.

Never touching.

But close enough that my pulse stumbles.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?”

His eyes darken just slightly.

“You don’t want to test how little control I have left.”

The words are calm.

Too calm.

And that frightens me more than anger would.

Footsteps echo faintly from Viktor’s study down the corridor.

Roman steps back instantly.

Mask in place.

“Goodnight, Elena.”

He says it like a dismissal.

Like a verdict.

I climb the remaining stairs alone.

Inside my room, I close the door softly.

And for the first time since the wedding, I understand something with terrifying clarity.

Roman does not simply hate me.

He is punishing himself by pretending he doesn’t feel anything at all.

And Viktor…..

Viktor is watching us both.

The real war has not started yet.

But tonight, under chandeliers and crystal and controlled smiles, the first fracture split open.

And I was standing directly on it.

And when I finally closed my eyes to sleep, I was in his strong arms again. His tongue was so hot against my chest as I pulled him closer to myself arching my back and rocking against him. It’s wrong I know….. but it feels good.