chapter 3

KATYA

The door clicks shut behind my father and Oleg, the finality slamming down like a prison gate. The sharp echo reverberates in my ears, and the walls seem to squeeze inward. This is the moment I'm no longer just a girl with a bright future. Now I'm merely Isaac Kozlov's future wife.

I grit my teeth until my jaw throbs and remain glued to the oversized leather chair across from Isaac's desk, staring at the dark wood grain as though it might split open and swallow me whole.

He stays silent, offering no 'Are you okay?' or hollow promise that everything will be fine. Of course he doesn't. From what I've heard, Isaac Kozlov doesn't do gentle. This is business and nothing else.

He strolls around the desk and props himself against the edge in front of me, arms folded, ankles casually crossed. He doesn't exactly loom, yet he still manages to occupy every inch of the room.

I hate that I notice how perfectly his shirt skims his chest and forearms, as if it had been sewn onto him, hinting at hard strength beneath. I hate that he smells of expensive soap and crisp linen, undeniably masculine, and that the scent makes my pulse stutter.

He's hot as hell, which does nothing to cool my disdain. He won't be my husband. In a few days, he'll beg my father to cancel the arrangement. When I'm finished with him, he'll rue the day he met me.

For now, he watches me as if he has all the time in the world, and I sit as still as marble, refusing to flinch under his gaze.

"Your father and Oleg," he says finally, his voice a smooth, dangerous rumble, "make interesting business partners."

I scoff. "Business is life after all, isn't it?"

Typical. He's no different from my father. I'm just a piece in their never-ending chess match.

He lifts a brow, amused. "Would you prefer 'negotiation'? 'Alliance'? 'Peace treaty sealed with a bride'?"

I glare at him, jaw tight. "You don't need to dress it up. You bought me."

"I didn't ask for this," he says, calm and unbothered. "But I don't say no to opportunities that fall into my lap."

I cross my legs and lean back in the chair, folding my arms across my chest like armor.

"You think I'm an opportunity," I say. "In the five minutes since you found out about this, you've probably calculated a dozenways you can use me to your advantage. Well, I've got news for you. I'm no one's possession."

He doesn't say anything right away. His gaze lingers too long, not lasciviously, but with the same tactical sharpness he wore when the men were in the room, as though he's weighing me on an internal scale.

"I don't doubt that," he finally concedes.

"But you're definitely a complication."

"That's the first honest thing you've said."

He lets out a low, rough chuckle. "Oh, I have no intention of lying to you. I'm just trying to decide if you're as difficult as you look."

My mouth falls open. "Excuse me?"

"You made quite the entrance," he continues, undeterred. "Stormed in, insulted your father, insulted me, and then announced you'd make my life hell.

You don't strike me as someone content to play the part of a quiet, dutiful wife.

But I wonder, are you all bark?"

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. "Trust me, my bite is plenty sharp," I say, the words spat like poison. "And I have absolutely no intention of being your wife."

"Trust me,printsessa, I gathered that." He chuckles.

The way he says it, printsessa, soft and sardonic, makes the Russian endearment scrape against my ears like a rusty key. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs.

"Let me save us both some trouble," I say so quietly he's forced to lean closer. "I don't care what deal was made. I don't carewhat peace you think this marriage will bring. I won't be sweet, obedient, or polite. I won't smile at your men or stay in your bed. I won't pretend this is anything but a farce."

He blinks once. Slow. Then straightens, uncrossing his arms and pushing off the desk. He takes a few steps toward me, measured and silent. My heart stutters, but I don't show it. I won't.

“Good,” he says finally with a slight smirk.

I frown. “What?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

“I don’t want polite. I don’t want pretend. I want honest.” He stops right in front of me. “And you just gave me exactly that.”

He’s so close I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. I note the faint stubble along his jaw, the thin scar near his temple, the steady way his gaze locks on mine. Part of me wants to run, but another part wants to be devoured. I shove that reckless urge deep and refuse to acknowledge it.

"You're not what I expected," he murmurs, almost to himself.

I resist the shiver that threatens to crawl up my spine.

"Let me guess," I say, each word dripping sarcasm. "You expected meek? Naïve? Maybe someone so desperate to please her father she'd fall in line and warm your bed like a good little trophy?"

His lips twitch. "No, certainly not," he says, leaning down close enough that I can feel his breath. "I'd be disappointed if you were any of those things, especially given your father's reputation. I just didn't expect you to be so angry."

I spring to my feet, bringing us nearly nose-to-nose.

Well, sorry to disappoint," I hiss.

"You haven't disappointed me," he says, voice low.

My breath catches, but I recover quickly. He won't know the effect he has on me. I blame my father for this, too. If Papa hadn't sent my date home last night, I wouldn't be so wound up. That's all it is. My hormones are raging because I was denied what I needed and it has nothing to do with Isaac's broad shoulders.

"Let me make something clear, Kozlov," I say, voice sharp. "I don't want this marriage. I don't want you. And I will do everything in my power to make this as unpleasant for you as possible until you give up this ridiculous charade."

He studies me for a long moment, then smiles, not mockingly, not kindly, but like a man who has just been handed a rare a man who has just been handed a rare opportunity to prove himself.

"Unfortunately for you," he says, his voice dripping with velvet, "I like a challenge."

His smile is the final straw.

I spin on my heel and storm out, my stilettos pounding the marble like war drums. Rage surges with every step. I don't wait for permission or look back. I just walk, fast and focused, as though speed alone can outrun the weight of what's been done to me.

I have to marry that smug, smirking bastard who thinks my fury is amusing. My plan shatters right in front of me. No matter what I do, I can already tell it will only challenge him more.

"Katya!" my father's voice booms from behind me. "Stop."

I don't. Instead, I pick up my pace.

"Stop." His tone sharpens, commanding and familiar. His footsteps close in, and when his hand clamps around my arm, I whirl on him, eyes blazing.

"What?" I snap.

His expression is tight, controlled.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he seethes.

"Home," I say, my voice shaking. "Away from this insanity. I'm not marrying him."

"Stop being dramatic."

I bark out a bitter laugh. "Dramatic? You just gave me away like a party favor, andI'mbeing dramatic? Do you even care about me at all?"

He lets go of my arm but steps in front of me, blocking the hallway. "I didn't give you away," he argues, his eyes furious. "I secured your future."

"You sold me," I say softly, low enough that only he can hear.

"I made a deal," he says. "One that will ensure your safety and protect the family."

I step in closer, shaking with fury. "What about what I want, Papa? What about my choice? My dreams?"

“You think your dreams matter more than peace between two powerful Bratvas?”

“Yes!” I explode. “Because they’re mine. I wanted a life I built with my own hands. A gallery, a family, a man I chose, not one assigned to me like a school project!”

His jaw tightens. “You will have stability,” he says, sounding exasperated. “Wealth, respect, power. No little boy from a club is going to offer you more than that.”

“What about love?” I counter. “Where’s love in your little business transaction?”

"Love doesn't matter in our world."

"Maybe it didn't for you," I whisper. "But it does for me."

His voice drops, cold and final. "This is not up for debate, Katya. You are my daughter," he says, "and this is what your mother would have expected."

The air leaves my lungs in a rush.

He said the one thing he shouldn't have.

The one thing that guts me more than any of his cold logic.

"You don't get to use her against me," I say, my voice like broken glass.

"She understood duty," he says, anger dripping from his voice. "She would expect you to do this."

"You don't know what she would've wanted for me," I shoot back.

"She was loyal to this family," he begins, but I cut him off.

"She was lonely," I hiss, cutting him off. "And miserable. And married to a man who only ever saw her as a means to an end. It was probably a relief for her to die."

His face freezes. For once, the weight of my words seems to hit him, and I hate that it hurts him. But I want to hurt him right now. I want him to feel the sting of helplessness, of havingeverything he wants stripped away and packaged as duty. His silence is answer enough.

But it doesn't matter. The deal is done. The cage door is shut. And the key is in Isaac Kozlov's hands. I step back from my father, suddenly exhausted.

"You don't care what this does to me. You never have."

"I care more than you know," he says quietly. "Which is why I made the deal. You'll understand in time."

"No. I won't."

I turn away, too angry to cry, too shattered to stay composed. And that's when I see Isaac. He's leaning against the doorframe of his office, arms crossed, watching the scene like its theater.

There's that damn smirk again, lazily amused, eyes gleaming with something dangerous and unreadable. My stomach turns. My fists clench.

His voice drips like molasses, slow, warm, cloyingly sweet.

"I'll see you soon, wife."

And he walks back into his office like he’s already won a game I didn’t know we were playing.