I never thought I’d be nostalgic for awkward corporate Christmas parties, but here we are.
This is worse.
From my uncomfortable perch on a stiff brocade chair, I watch as the Akopov family estate transforms into what can only be described as Russian Mafia Central Station. Midnight black SUVs roll through the gates one after the next, each disgorging men in expensive suits and women dripping with diamonds.
Vince calls this a “small gathering of associates” to announce our upcoming wedding.
I call it a nightmare.
“Breathe,” I remind myself, smoothing my hands over the emerald silk dress Vince had delivered this morning. It fits perfectly, of course. The man may be a lying, manipulative crime lord with trust issues, but he knows my measurements down to the millimeter.
Which is both highly romantic and deeply disturbing when I think about it too hard.
“You look beautiful.”
I jump at the sound of Vince’s voice, close to my ear. He’s materialized beside me, a glass of water in one hand and that possessive gleam in his eyes that still makes my knees weak, despite everything.
“I look terrified,” I correct as I accept the water with a nod of thanks. “Which is the appropriate response when your living room is suddenly full of people who probably know seventeen different ways to dispose of a body.”
Vince’s lips twitch with what might be amusement. “Only twelve, generally speaking. The other five methods are considered outdated.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” He shifts, his body angling protectively in front of mine as his eyes scan the room. “Most of these people won’t hurt you. The ones who might wouldn’t dare try under my roof.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It should be.” His hand brushes mine, the briefest touch. “I’ve never lied about my ability to protect you.”
No, just about literally everything else.
But I swallow that retort. We’ve been over this ground exhaustively in the two weeks since I agreed to this arrangement. Bitterness won’t help either of us.
“So who are all these people?” I ask instead, tracking a particularly grim-faced older man with a scar that bisects his clouded left eye.
“The inner circle and their families.” Vince follows my gaze. “That’s Yannik Sokolov. One of my father’s oldest allies. The woman with him is his third wife, Yelena.”
I nod, trying to commit the names to memory. There will be a test later, I’m sure. There’s always a test with Vince.
“And the blonde by the fireplace? The one who looks like she’s calculating how many rose petals she could stuff down my throat?”
Vince sighs. “Katerina Volkov. Mikhail’s niece.”
“Oh, duh. I remember.” The second bride candidate. The one who was supposed to be a suitable match. “She doesn’t seem pleased about recent developments.”
“Her uncle is furious I chose you instead of her.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather rather than familial rage. “The alliance would have been… convenient.”
“For the Bratva,” I fill in. “Not so much for your heart.”
His eyes flicker with something—surprise, maybe, that I would acknowledge any lingering emotional component to our complicated relationship. “Something like that.”
A server approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. Vince waves him off before I can even speak. “Ms. St. Clair isn’t drinking,” he says firmly.
“The baby,” I explain, hand drifting to my still-small bump.
The server’s face lights up with genuine warmth. “Ah, of course! Congratulations! The first Akopov heir of a new generation. A blessing indeed.”
He bustles away before I can respond, leaving me stunned by this first display of authentic happiness for our news.
“Not everyone here hates me,” I murmur, surprised.
“Most don’t hate you at all,” Vince replies. “They simply don’t know what to make of you yet. A pregnant American with no family connections, suddenly engaged to the heir apparent?” His mouth curves. “You’ve disrupted decades of carefully laid plans.”
“Story of my life. Professional plan-disrupter.”
This time, he does smile. I pretend I’m not memorizing how pure it looks on him.
“Vince.” A deep voice interrupts our moment.
I look up to find Arkady approaching.
“They’re ready,” he says, looking meaningfully toward a set of closed doors at the far end of the room.
Vince nods, then turns to me. “The council is assembled. It’s time to make our announcement official.”
The fluttering in my chest turns into full-blown panic. “Council? What council? You said this was just a party!”
“The Bratva council,” he clarifies, as if that’s supposed to be either explanatory or reassuring. “They need to formally acknowledge our engagement for it to have weight in our world.”
I stare at his outstretched hand, suddenly aware of how real this all is.
My stomach lurches.
“Do you have any ficuses on hand I could throw up in?”
Vince immediately kneels beside my chair, one hand coming to rest on my knee. It’s the most he’s touched me since I agreed to return, and the warmth of his palm seeps through the silk of my dress in a way that means more to me than I’d ever admit out loud.
“Look at me,” he says quietly. “You can do this. You’re stronger than any of them realize.”
“I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m just a stupid girl who has made a series of increasingly catastrophic life choices.”
“You’re the woman who hid evidence from the FBI for me. Who survived being hunted by Solovyov’s men. Who’s carrying my child and still has the courage to put me in my place when I deserve it.” His voice drops even lower, a whisper meant for my ears alone. “You belong at my side, Rowan. No matter what any of them think.”
Something in his words steadies me. Not because I fully believe them—I’m still not sure I belong anywhere in this world—but because he does.
Whatever else has happened between us, whatever lies and manipulations brought us to this point, Vince’s belief in me seems genuine.
It’s a little floatie to hold onto in this ocean of uncertainty. Not a lot, but something.
“Okay,” I say. I swallow the nausea and use his hand to rise to my feet. “Let’s go convince a room full of murderers that the mousy American is worthy of their future leader.”
His fingers tighten around mine. “You won’t have to convince them of anything. That’s my job.”
He leads me toward the imposing double doors, Arkady falling into step behind us like a golden-haired shadow. As we approach, the crowd parts.
I spot Andrei standing near the doors. Our eyes meet briefly, and a chill runs through me at the memory of his fingers around my throat.
Vince notices my tension and moves to block me from him.
The doors swing open to reveal a room I haven’t seen before in my limited explorations of the estate. It’s a library, but unlike any library I’ve ever visited. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. A gargantuan table dominates the center, around which sit twelve men of various ages, all watching our entrance with piercing focus.
My hand instinctively finds my stomach again. We’re safe, I tell my baby. Vince won’t let anything happen to us.
Vince guides me to the head of the table. His father takes the seat at the opposite end, creating a visual standoff that even I can understand the symbolism of.
“Gentlemen,” Vince addresses the room in a voice that carries none of the gentleness he just showed me. “I’ve called this council to formally announce my betrothal to Rowan St. Clair, who will become my wife before the month is out.”
A murmur ripples around the table. An older man with a gray beard leans forward. “So it’s true. This is… unexpected, Vincent. We were led to believe you were considering other alliances.”
“Plans change,” Vince says simply. “Ms. St. Clair is carrying my child. She will be my wife and the mother of the next Akopov heir.”
“The child could still be legitimized through other arrangements,” another man suggests. “There is no need to rush into marriage with an outsider.”
Before Vince can answer, I step forward. “I’m standing right here,” I say, my voice shaking only slightly. “And this ‘outsider’ has a name. He just told it to you.”
The room falls silent. Twelve pairs of eyes flit to me with expressions ranging from shock to outrage. Even Vince looks surprised, though not displeased.
“Ms. St. Clair,” the bearded man begins, his tone condescending, “this is a matter for the brotherhood to—”
“This is a matter concerning my child,” I interrupt. “And while I may not understand all the protocols and politics of your little club, I understand that much.”
Andrei’s laugh cuts through the tension—not a pleasant sound, but one that draws all attention to him. “She has spirit, I’ll grant her that. Perhaps there’s more to this American than meets the eye.”
We all do a double-take, me most of all.
It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it shifts the mood in the room.
Vince’s hand finds the small of my back as he clears his throat. “My decision is made. Rowan will be my wife. Our child will be my heir.” His voice hardens. “Anyone who cannot accept this is welcome to reconsider their position within our organization. Or it will be reconsidered for them.”
Even I can’t miss that threat.
One by one, the men at the table exchange glances. Some nod reluctantly. Others remain stone-faced.
But none speak out again.
“Then it’s settled,” Vince concludes. “The wedding will take place in three weeks’ time. I expect you all to welcome my bride with the respect due to the future Mrs. Akopov.”
With that, he turns to escort me from the room. As we cross the threshold, I hear Andrei’s voice once more.
“Vincent.”
We both pause, looking back.
“Your mother’s ring,” Andrei says in an uninterpretable rumble. “It should be on her finger for the announcement.”
Vince stiffens beside me, then gives a curt nod. “I’ll see to it.”
Outside in the hallway, away from prying eyes, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Well, that was absolutely terrifying.”
“You were remarkable,” Vince says as he cradles my face. “Not many would have the courage to speak up in that room.”
“Not courage. Just pregnancy hormones and poor impulse control.” I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “Are they always like that?”
He considers this for a moment. “Yes,” he says finally. “It’s how I was raised. How they all were. Emotion is weakness. Strategy is everything.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It was. Until you.”
It’s quiet for a while. Vince’s hands fall away from my face reluctantly, mournfully. Finally, he straightens. “We should rejoin the gathering. Make the announcement to the broader group.”
“More scary Russians to impress. Great.”
His mouth quirks. “Not all of them are scary. Some are merely homicidal.”
“In that case, I can’t wait.”
We move back toward the main room, but before we reach it, Vince stops, turning to face me. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For being here. For trying.” His eyes search mine, more vulnerable than I’ve seen them since everything fell apart. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. “It’s not,” I admit. “None of this is what I imagined for my life.”
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
I hear the question beneath the question. Do you regret me?
I think about the baby growing inside me.
About the man standing before me, with all his flaws and lies and surprising moments of tenderness.
About the life that awaits us, complicated and dangerous—but never, ever boring.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I answer honestly. “But I’m here. And I’m trying, too.”
