ARIEL
The human heart is a traitorous little organ. It doesn’t care about logic, or self-preservation, or the meticulously constructed walls you’ve wasted decades building up. It doesn’t care that you’ve spent your whole life running from the very thing now standing in front of you, smirking like the devil who just won the last soul at the auction.
No—the heart does what it wants. It races when it should retreat. It softens when it should harden. It aches when it should burn with rage.
I’d know. Mine is currently trying to claw its way out of my ribcage like a caged animal.
Breathe, I tell myself, pressing a hand to my sternum as if I could physically shove the feeling back down. Breathe, or you’ll pass out in front of the man who literally ordered a hit over voicemail two hours ago. Breathe, or he’ll see you break.
But breathing requires oxygen, and the air in the Met’s grand hall feels thick as syrup. Too much perfume, too many floral arrangements. My stolen DVF dress itches where sweat trickles down my spine. One stubborn curl clings to my cheek like a question mark. And my hand—the one he bandaged—throbs in time with the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
But it is.
Sasha Ozerov—the Sasha Ozerov, heir to the Russian Bratva’s throne, the man whose hands were literally inside of me less than an hour ago—stands before me, his ice-chip eyes widening a fraction as they lock onto mine.
For a second, the world narrows to the hitch in his breath, the subtle flex of his jaw, the way his knuckles whiten around the champagne flute he’s holding. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in his armor.
It’s gone as quickly as it came.
Leander’s voice booms beside me. “Sasha, meet my daughter, Ariel. Your fiancée.”
Fiancée. It’s just a word, theoretically speaking. In reality, it’s a guillotine blade hurtling toward my throat.
Run, screams every survival instinct I’ve honed since childhood. But my feet are rooted to the marble floor, my lungs refusing to cooperate. The room wobbles. Memories crash over me in waves.
Twelve years old, hiding in a closet while Baba’s enemies ransacked our apartment, their laughter sharp as gunfire.
Seventeen, stuffing my birth certificate into a backpack, stealing cash from his safe, slipping out the fire escape while he roared my name downstairs.
Twenty-two, scrubbing fake IDs until “Ariana Makris” was buried under layers of ink, becoming Ariel Ward—a name that didn’t taste like blood on my tongue.
And now, this. A cosmic punchline. The universe laughing as it dumps me back into the lion’s den, this time with a diamond collar around my neck.
Sasha’s gaze flicks to Leander, then back to me. There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—recognition, yes, but something hotter, darker. A challenge. A promise.
“A pleasure,” he says, his voice that same rough heat that ignited something low in my stomach earlier. He extends a hand, the same one that had pinned me to the sink. I stare at it like it’s a live wire.
Touch him, and you’re lost.
But Leander is watching, his smile serrated.
So I take the devil’s hand.
The contact sends a jolt through me, electric and unforgiving. His grip tightens. A silent question. A taunt.
“Likewise,” I lie, pulling away too quickly.
Leander claps his hands, the sound like a judge’s gavel. “Wonderful! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have philanthropic duties to attend to.” He lingers on the words, the inside joke of a man who knows damn well that all of this is a puppet show for people too stupid to know better. “You two get acquainted.”
He melts into the crowd, leaving me alone with the human embodiment of a double-edged sword.
Sasha steps closer, his cologne washing over me. “So,” he murmurs, voice low enough to skirt the hum of the room. “Ariel Ward.”
The way he says it—like he’s peeling back a layer of my skin—makes me shiver. “Surprise.”
His mouth twitches. “You could’ve mentioned you were the Makris spare.”
“And ruin the mystery?” I force a smirk, though it feels brittle. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He studies me, those blue eyes missing nothing: not the tremor in my hands, not the way my pulse flutters at my throat. “You’re shaking.”
“Adrenaline crash.” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Happens after you narrowly avoid death-by-murderous-stranger in a bathroom stall.”
“Ah.” He swirls his champagne. The liquid catches the light like liquid gold. “And here I thought it was my charm.”
“Your ‘charm’ almost got me fired.”
“But not killed.”
“Not yet.”
He hums, a sound that vibrates in my bones. “You’re still standing, ptichka. That’s more than most people manage.”
The nickname—little bird—sinks its claws into me. I want to hate it. I want to hate him. So why can’t I?
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Mama never told me this part of the fairy tale.
I wasn’t supposed to want the monster.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask suddenly. “The Bratva doesn’t need alliances. You could’ve taken the Greeks out years ago.”
Something flashes in his eyes—a shadow, there and gone. “Careful, reporter. Curiosity killed the cat.”
“And satisfaction brought it back.” I tilt my chin up, defiant. “Don’t avoid the question. Why marry me? Why not just put a bullet in my father’s skull and take what you want?”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then he leans in, his breath grazing my ear. “Because bullets make martyrs, ptichka. But marriages? Those make empires.”
The words slither down my spine. Before I can respond, he straightens, his mask of icy control back in place. “Dance with me.”
It’s not a request.
The orchestra swells as he tows me onto the floor, his hand settling at the small of my back like we’ve done this a million times before. We move in sync, this fucked-up parody of happily-ever-after-in-the-making. It’s treacherously easy to let him lead me around.
“You’re afraid,” he observes, spinning me out before reeling me back in.
“Of you?” I laugh, bitter. “Please.”
“Of what you’ll become.” His grip tightens. “Of how much you want to burn it all down.”
There’s not much in this world that stings more than the unvarnished truth—but the truth as told by Sasha Ozerov might be one of those things. Because he’s right—I’m not just afraid of him, or Leander, or the shackles of this arrangement.
I’m afraid of the part of me that’s still Ariana Makris, the girl who learned to lie before she learned to ride a bike. The part that knows how to survive in the dark.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper.
“Oh, I know enough. I know you taste like peaches and bad decisions. I know how it sounds when you come undone. And I know—” He dips me suddenly, his lips brushing my jaw. “—you’d rather die than let either of us win.”
The music crescendos. Around us, the crowd applauds the band, oblivious to the war waging in the center of the dance floor.
When he pulls me upright, I’m trembling for real now. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything.” His finger traces the line of my hip, possessive. “Starting with the truth you’re hiding from yourself.”
“Which is?”
“That when you said ‘Or else what?’ in that bathroom…” His grip tightens, sending electricity through my veins. “You weren’t afraid I’d kill you.”
The crowd melts away. There’s only his breath on my collarbone, his lips grazing the hammering pulse at my throat.
“You were afraid I’d ruin you instead.”
