chapter 1

KATYA

“Fuck you’re a good kisser.”

“I’m an even better lay.”

Little does my date know, it'll never get that far.

The front door creaks when I shove it open with my back, a laugh slipping out as his warm lips skim the sensitive curve of my neck. I grope for the handle until I catch it, nudging the door shut with a soft click. Leaning into the stranger's mouth, I let him leave feather kisses over my skin, even though I can't remember his name.

Vince? Vlad? Something with a V, maybe a B. Not that it matters. He smells of leather, gin, and unearned swagger. The kind of guy who orders bottle service and leaves a five-percent tip. In short, a douche, but I don't care. He was charming enough to reel me in and sleazy enough to infuriate my dad. For tonight, that's the only thing that matters.

I slip off my heels one at a time, my bare feet settling on the cool marble.

"Shh," I whisper, glancing down the hallway. "Don't be too loud, or you'll disturb the guards."

He lets out a low chuckle. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll be in and out before anyone even knows I was here."

There's the sleaze I was hoping for. Then again, even if he were a choirboy from Jersey, my father would still hate him. In my father's eyes, who I bring home is never my call. My love life is just another pawn in his game. And, tonight, yanking that pawn off the board is all that matters to me.

I smirk at Vince-or-Vlad, whatever his name is.

"Cocky," I purr. "I like that."

It's not exactly a lie. Honestly, I don't even know what I like in a guy except that he cannot be someone my father hand-picked. Once my fate is sealed, there's no going back, so for now I'll squeeze whatever fun I can out of the night.

Our hushed voices ricochet through the grand hallway, slicing through the silence that hangs over the place.

Growing up here was less luxury and more legislation, a museum of velvet drapes, antique furniture, and armed men I learned to slip past if I wanted even a shred of normalcy.

We make it only six steps into the house

before a voice crashes through the dark.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Katya?"

I stop cold, my heartbeat thrumming with surprise and anger.

It isn't the volume of his voice, it's the lethal edge. My spine locks as I turn toward the source. The living room glows with amber light from the fireplace, casting long shadows across the ornaterug. My father sits in his usual armchair, his jaw set like stone, and beside him, smugly sipping scotch and clearly enjoying the show, is Oleg Grinkov, the pakhan of the Grinkov Bratva.

Shit. I didn't just get caught. I embarrassed my father in front of his boss. There will be hell to pay. I swallow hard and sidestep whats his name, shoving him behind me like a misbehaving dog.

"I didn't realize you were home," I say, my voice pitched too high and nowhere near sharp enough.

Papa's stare doesn't waver. "It's time for you to send your friend home."

"He's not my friend," I shoot back, trying to maintain some tiny shred of control over the situation. "He's my reward for playing the dutiful daughter all damn day."

His brow lifts, and my attempt to assert myself dies a swift, painful death.

I turn to my club fling and sigh. "You should go," I say quietly.

He frowns, wearing the look of a man who's just realized he isn't getting lucky tonight.

"What? Babe?-"

"Now," I snap, cutting him off. "Seriously. Get the hell out of here if you know what's good for you."

He shifts his gaze between the two men and me like he's finally realized he might be in real danger. Then he huffs, mutters something under his breath, and walks out the front door with his ego bruised and his night ruined. I almost envy him.

I exhale, pushing a hand through my hair as I step farther into the living room.

“You can’t expect me to stay locked in the house like a damn prisoner all the time,” I say, still pushing.

“It looks like that’s exactly what I should expect. You were seconds away from tarnishing something very valuable,” he says coldly. “Something that is not yours to ruin.”

There’s that word he loves to dangle whenever my virginity comes up. Valuable. As though I’m a rare gem or a vintage car kept showroom-perfect for resale. Not a person with wants and feelings. Not his daughter. No, like everything else in his world, I’m a bargaining chip. He’s kept me on lockdown so he can auction me off to some oligarch and pocket the highest possible price.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Nice to know I’m still the family’s most treasured antique.”

His eyes flash with anger. "You've been protected," he says in the same warning tone he always uses when the subject comes up.

"Caged," I shoot back.

"Kept pure," he argues.

"Kept, period," I growl. "Don't dress it up like a fairytale. I know what I am in this world. I've known since I was fifteen."

"And yet you keep testing me."

I shrug. "It's the only thrill I'm allowed."

He rises, smooth and unhurried, like a storm forming just offshore.

"Do you want to explain what would have happened if I hadn't been home tonight?"

"I wasn't going to sleep with him," I say, deflated, even though I know he'll never believe it's true.

"You were close," he seethes, his anger, as always, right at the surface.

"I know the rules, Papa," I remind him, my voice cutting. "You've trained me well."

Oleg lets out a low whistle and takes another sip of his drink. "She's got your spine, Viktor. And your mouth."

"Ignore him," my father says, his voice clipped.

"Oh, trust me," I mutter under my breath, so neither of them can hear me, "I always do."

The silence stretches, the air between us thick with something old and bitter. The

truth is, I've been toeing the line for years. Every night out, every flirtation, every half-dressed rebellion, I've known exactly how far I can go. Close enough to feel free, but careful enough not to destroy the one thing that makes me "valuable."

It's pathetic, really, and it's always been the core of our conflict. He's always planned to use me as the perfect, obedient bride served up on a platter to some associate to gain a business advantage, and I've always resented him for it. I wasn't raised to fall in love. I was raised to be virginal until I was sold to the most advantageous partner.

But I still hoped, deep down, that one day he might change his mind, that he'd let me belong to myself. Tonight proves, more than ever, that he never will.

Oleg leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice syrupy and smug.

"Well," he says, "I suppose now is as good a time as any to fill your daughter in on what we've just agreed to."

My stomach drops.

"What is that exactly?" I ask suspiciously, looking between them.

Oleg leans back like he's settling into his throne, smug satisfaction etched into every line of his face. I hate the way he watches me, like I'm not a person but a piece of currency exchanging hands. My gaze flicks to my father, expecting, hoping, for some kind of correction. Some hint that this is a joke. But father just nods at me, slowly, like this is something I'm supposed to just accept.

"Sit down, Katya."

I don't move.

My heart is thudding in my chest, each beat louder than the last.

"No." I shake my head. "Not until you explain what the hell is going on."

He sighs and gestures to the couch with more force. “Sit.”

I sit only because my knees threaten to give out and I refuse to let them see me stumble. Heat and confusion prickle under my skin, cold sweat gathering at the nape of my neck.

Viktor lowers himself into the armchair across from me.

“Now that Oleg ispakhan,” he begins, his voice measured, “it’s time to end the bad blood between our family and the Kozlovs.”

"And what does that have to do with me?" I wonder aloud, narrowing my eyes at them.

Oleg's sickening grin widens. "Everything."

My father continues as though he hasn't heard him. "We have a very important meeting tomorrow to make an offer," he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

"You will marry Isaac Kozlov."

The world stops moving. I hear the words, and in theory I know what they mean, but my brain refuses to process them.

"You're not serious," I breathe.

He nods once, signaling that he's done talking about it. "You made an agreement," I repeat numbly. "To marry me off? Without even asking me?"

"This is bigger than you, Katya."

I stare at him like he's grown another head.

"Bigger than me?" I breathe. "I'm the one being manipulated like a pawn on a chessboard."

"You were raised for this," he says simply. "You knew this day would come."

"I thought I would at least get a heads up. Maybe even the option to refuse."

"This is your heads-up," he responds calmly. "As for the option to refuse, I'm sorry you were under such a presumption. I assure you, that was never on the table."

"So I just get sacrificed to a man twice my age so you two can toast and pat yourselves on the back for brokering peace?"

Papa's jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. "This marriage will secure peace between the Kozlovs and Grinkovs for generations. It's a strong move. A smart one."

"Then you do it. You marry Isaac."

He doesn't blink. "I don't think I'm really his type."

"No, because you're not a twenty-two-year-old virgin groomed to be traded like livestock."

Oleg chuckles. "Isaac will be good to you. He's a powerful man. You'll be taken care of."

"I don't want to be 'taken care of," I spit."I want to choose who I marry. I want to marry someone I love."

My father leans forward, eyes like honed steel. "Love is a luxury, and it won't protect you when this world turns on you. What we're offering is protection, security. You'll wield more power as Isaac's wife than you ever will chasing some fairy tale. You've had a good life so far, and you'll find his way of living meets your standards."

Good life? Try caged life. I remember slipping out with Evie, short skirts hidden under long coats, pretending to be anyone but myself. I remember every time a boy flirted with me and one of Papa's guards materialized like a ghost to shut it down. I have no idea what it feels like to love a man, and be loved back, because I was raised to be a prize for some mobster.

I try to argue again with my father, but he puts his hand up to stop me.

"I'm tired of this argument, Katya," he says in a dismissive tone. "This is happening, so I suggest you get used to the idea."

That's all I'll get from him, and we both know it. Without another word, I rise, pivot on my heel and storm toward my room. Every fiber of my being is thrumming with anger.

When I reach my room, I slam the door and throw myself onto the bed. I want to cry, to scream, to smash something, anything to keep this nightmare from feeling real. But lashing out would only prove to my father that I'm a child that needs to be handled.

A thought sparks bright inside me. Risky, yes, but it might be my only exit. If I'm unbearable, the worst bride imaginable, Isaac will have to call off the wedding and send me packing. Then Papa will have no choice but to accept that this marriage isn't happening.

If I’m ever going to live the life I want, I have to stop this marriage before it starts.