Russia — Malakov Estate — Main Council Hall
The bleak morning light filtered through the thick glass of the high-ceilinged chamber, casting the shadows of men seated around the vast oval table like specters waiting for a spark of fury.
The Malakov family had gathered.
Their strongest men—sharp-eyed, hard-faced—sat in their leather chairs, each with a copy of the eight conditions sent from Spain. And between the lines of those demands, they could all sense the voice of a woman who was anything but ordinary.
The first objection came rough and sharp:
"These are impossible terms. No one dictates conditions to us!"
A second followed with a bitter laugh:
"Have they forgotten who the weaker side is? They beg for survival, not us."
A third man slammed the paper down.
"An annulment clause? Divorce without consequence? She speaks as if this marriage is a luxury, not an alliance!"
A fourth shot up, face red with anger.
"And refusing the marriage bed? What kind of union is this? We don't take our women that way!"
Murmurs rose like a storm—papers slapped against the table, heads shook in fury.
Then, a voice, calm and low, like water sliding over stone:
"I don't see obstacles here... I see the precise demands of a girl about to be sent into enemy hands."
The chamber stilled.
"Which of us would send his daughter away without guarantees? Who among us could swear she wouldn't become a bargaining chip if this treaty failed?"
The men faltered. Slowly, all eyes turned toward the figure seated at the head of the table.
Mikhail Malakov.
Tall, broad-shouldered—a mountain of Russian ice. His bronze skin contrasted with the darkness of his soul. A sharp nose, a square jaw—features carved for war. But it was his eyes that silenced the room: strange, golden, gleaming with a feral light that made him seem less than human, more like a predator disguised as a man.
He sat motionless. He did not speak. He did not blink.
His silence weighed more than their shouts.
Hands clasped before him, his spine straight as a blade, he was a man measuring the rhythm of a battle without ever drawing his sword. His gaze drifted slowly, face to face, assessing weakness, treachery, the measure of each man's loyalty—or cowardice.
At last, he tilted his head slightly. His voice came deep and sharp, like a rock splitting in a frozen lake:
"A woman who understands the rules of war... is a woman worth reckoning with."
The silence deepened. Then, with deliberate calm, he added:
"Set the terms aside. I want to see her first."
---
Isabella sat by her window, brush in hand, her colors lifeless on the canvas as though her heart had abandoned them. The knock at her door shattered the fragile thread of thought.
Ginny entered, and behind her stood Sergio, face impassive as always. He stepped forward and spoke in his low voice:
"Señor Alejandro requests your presence at once, Miss."
Her brow lifted slightly, but she asked nothing. She laid the brush aside, wiped her hands, and followed in silence.
In her father's study, Alejandro stood by the window, hands behind his back. As she entered, he turned—his eyes softer than yesterday's. He gestured for her to sit.
"The replies have arrived," he said quietly.
She searched his face, saying nothing.
"They have agreed... in principle." He dropped the words like stones into still water.
"All of the conditions?" she whispered, incredulous.
He shook his head slowly.
"Not all. But neither did they reject them. They've chosen to negotiate... with you."
Her heart contracted sharply.
"With me?"
"Mikhail Malakov will come to see you tomorrow morning. He wants to meet you in person."
For a moment, the air left her chest. A faint tremor raced through her fingers; she hid it by clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She had heard his name countless times—behind closed doors, in intelligence files, in the wary glances of her father's men whenever it was spoken.
A man who did not smile, did not retreat, did not forgive.
"Tomorrow?" Her voice was barely there.
"Yes. The meeting will be here, in the estate. You won't be alone. But... be ready, Isabella. This man is unlike anyone you have ever faced."
She looked at him in silence, then nodded once and left.
But inside?
Something stirred. Not fear—no, not fear.
A cold, creeping unease, as though she stood on the edge of a cliff and could not see the bottom.
---
Her footsteps slowed before the door of her brother Francisco's room. She rarely came here. Francisco—the middle son—always lived in the quiet margins, far from the politics that consumed Raul, the heir. Yet he was steady, the most grounded of her brothers. And tonight... she needed that steadiness.
She knocked softly.
"Come in," came his calm voice.
She entered, and he glanced up from the papers on his desk, surprise flickering across his face.
"Isabella?"
"Am I disturbing you?" she asked gently, hesitating near the door.
He shook his head with a warm smile, closing his laptop. "Never. Sit."
She did, searching for words. At last:
"Father told me Mikhail Malakov will meet me tomorrow."
His brows rose slightly, but his expression remained composed.
"The Russians agreed."
She nodded.
"And you?"
She looked at him, held his gaze, and whispered:
"I... agreed. On my terms."
He studied her for a long moment before exhaling.
"You're smarter than anyone gives you credit for, Isabella. Even I forget sometimes how strong you've become."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"But still..." she added softly, "I'm afraid."
Francisco leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk.
"Fear isn't weakness. Not when you're about to face an earthquake like Mikhail."
"You know him?"
"I've read more than most. He's a man whose presence arrives before his voice. His reputation travels further still. But he's not the brute you think. He calculates every move. Men like that are either blessings... or disasters."
Her voice was low:
"I feel like I'm being thrown into a storm with no end."
"Maybe," he said. "But remember this—you're not being thrown. You're choosing. And that alone... is power."
Her smile softened, a little weight lifting from her chest.
"Stay close to me tomorrow, Francisco."
"I won't be far," he replied with the warmth in his eyes that always made her feel safe.
---
She didn't sleep that night.
Restless on her bed, she turned between silence and the weight of anticipation. Not fear, but that burning alertness warning her she was about to cross a threshold she could never return from. Meeting Mikhail Malakov was no mere introduction—it was a test, a balance of pride and cunning, a duel of presence before words.
At dawn, she rose. Cold water sharpened her senses, steeling the tremor of her heart. She stood before her mirror, no longer searching for weakness, but for the armor in her reflection.
Her choice of attire was deliberate: a cream dress, simple yet refined, long-sleeved with a proud neckline. No seduction, only dignity. A coffee-colored belt at her waist, her hair half-pinned, soft strands framing her face. A touch of jasmine perfume—subtle, hers alone.
Ginny entered, paused as her eyes lingered on her.
"You look... strong," she said simply.
Isabella gave a faint smile.
"I'm just... ready."
Together with Ginny and Sergio, she descended in silence. Today, they were guardians on a precipice.
In the eastern hall, preparations were set. Guards posted, her father speaking with advisors, eyes flicking to the clock. The Russian helicopter had landed minutes ago. Their guest was on his way.
She stood alone by the tall window, staring at gardens she no longer truly saw. Her mind was elsewhere—on the reports, the photographs, the grainy surveillance footage. A ruthless man, a killer in cold blood, who led his family of iron with fire in his veins. Yet she had always seen him as one sees a rare weapon—deadly, but wielded with purpose.
Then came the footsteps. Heavy. Steady. Not one of their own. She turned.
And there he was.
Mikhail Malakov entered the Spanish estate as though the walls were irrelevant. Tall, broad, forged like a warrior from battles without mercy. His features severe—a straight nose, a hard jaw, a shadow of stubble lending him a dangerous allure. His suit was dark, tailored, but without a tie, open at the collar to reveal the ink curling along the thick column of his throat.
And his eyes—those eyes.
Golden. Cold as Moscow's winter. Sharp as though they cut through stone. They didn't test; they measured, weighed, judged—as though she were a piece on a board of war.
A face chiseled by time without mercy. A predator's gaze. A wolf's gold eyes that saw more in the dark than in the light.
Isabella did not falter. She stood, spine straight, facing him as though he were a king without a crown—and she was no pawn.
He stopped at the threshold, his gaze sweeping the hall before settling on her.
They met.
She stood in her simple dress, unbowed, unsmiling. He, motionless, yet weighing her as though every inch carried meaning. No courtesies, no hollow greetings. Only silence, stretched taut, between two rulers on the edge of a fragile truce.
He stepped forward slowly. She held her ground.
And when he stood before her, his vo
ice came deep, sharp, without preamble:
"You're not what I expected."
Her reply was steady, free of heat:
"And you... are exactly what they said you were."
The first test had begun.
A long silence stretched between them, unbroken by the shuffle of servants or the distant footsteps of guards. It was as if the world had receded into the background, leaving only the two of them—strangers, yet somehow alike—facing one another.
With a subtle nod from her father, a guard swung open the doors to the eastern wing, reserved for the most important of guests. Isabella turned without a word and walked inside with quiet grace, certain he would follow. She didn't wait, nor did she deliberately ignore him. She moved as though she were leading the scene.
The room was adorned in heavy classical décor, its tall windows overlooking the courtyard, velvet curtains carrying the faint musk of old power. She advanced to the edge of the sofa and sat down, her back straight, her posture composed, as though she had lived through such encounters before.
Minutes later, he entered.
He closed the door himself, without a sound.
Slow, deliberate steps carried him forward. He studied the room briefly, then turned to her and sat in the chair opposite. No table separated them. No shield.
"Do you know why I'm here, Isabella?" His voice was deep—like a bullet wrapped in velvet.
Her gaze held steady as she answered, "I know exactly. I'm just not certain whether you see this as punishment… or reward."
One brow lifted slightly, as though she'd caught his interest. He didn't smile, but neither did he bristle. His tone was measured, almost quiet.
"This marriage was meant to staunch the bleeding. But we both know… peace is not built on golden rings."
She met his eyes with calm defiance, her words carrying a trace of poised irony.
"Nor is it built on war, Mikhail. In the end, blood drowns everyone—even the victor."
He leaned back, watching her with those unblinking eyes.
"You seem more prepared for this than I expected."
"Did you think you'd find me crying? Shaking in fear?"
"No…" he said slowly. "I expected a spoiled girl, furious at being handed to a stranger like some trophy of war."
Her lips curved with a faint bitterness.
"I am not a gift. I am… a condition."
His silence was agreement enough. Then he murmured,
"And I am not an easy man."
She replied at once, voice steady, unyielding:
"Nor am I a woman who breaks."
Another silence fell. It lingered—not awkward, but charged.
He drew out a cigarette, lit it without asking whether she minded, and exhaled smoke into the air. His voice cut through it.
"What is it you want from this marriage?"
Her gaze locked onto his.
"To stay alive. To protect what's left of my family. And not to belong to you… except on paper."
His eyes lifted slightly; he closed them for a brief moment, then spoke with quiet approval.
"A clear bargain. I like that."
She held his stare, her voice calm but edged with steel.
"And you, Mikhail? What do you want from me?"
At last, he smiled. Slowly. It wasn't warmth—it was something darker, more enigmatic.
"For you to remain exactly as you are now—steady. Honest. Never pretending, never denying who you are."
He said it like the signing of a pact—something binding, irrevocable.
Silence returned, until Isabella leaned forward slightly, her eyes steady and her voice low but unmistakable.
"Do you agree to my terms, Mikhail?"
He looked as though he had anticipated the question. No hesitation. No bargaining.
"Yes," he said simply—like sealing a treaty that could not be undone.
Her shoulders eased against the sofa, as though she had finally drawn her first breath since entering the room. After a moment, she lifted her gaze once more.
"Then tell me one thing… who killed my brother?"
The question carried no surprise for him, though its weight dropped like a stone into still water.
He didn't flinch. Didn't falter. He took a final drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and answered plainly:
"Aleksei Dragonov."
The silence that followed was heavier, deeper. Isabella showed no shock, no fury. She only closed her eyes for a moment, as though carving the name into her memory.
"Your brother tried to dishonor his wife," Mikhail added, his tone calm, sharp as a blade.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. No tears. No denial. Only a truth suspended between them.
"I'm not looking for vengeance. Only clarity."
"And that," he replied evenly, "I will always give you—so long as you are honest with me."
She rose slowly, casting him one last look before speaking:
"This will not be a conventional marriage… but I believe we will survive it."
A faint curve touched his lips as he crushed out the cigarette.
"Or rule from opposite thrones."
She opened the door and stepped out—silent, composed—exactly as she had entered.
Leaving him behind with her father, perhaps to seal the final arrangements of their union