After leaving her meeting with Mikhail, she didn't head straight to her suite. Instead, her steps carried her with quiet determination toward the back of the estate, where the gardens stretched like a secluded oasis—far removed from the noise of blood and decisions that shaped her life.
At the edge of the garden, tucked between orange trees and jasmine, stood her studio: a small stone building with wide glass windows that opened onto the greenery beyond. Her father had built it for her when she was a child, after discovering the spark of talent hidden in her small hands.
She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. Her coat slid from her shoulders and onto the hook by the door. She moved toward the easel, everything exactly as she had left it—tubes of paint, brushes hardened by use, the mingling scents of oil and varnish, and half-finished canvases leaning against the walls like secrets waiting to be revealed.
She pulled out a fresh canvas and began to paint.
For her, painting wasn't a pastime—it was breath itself. It was escape. A sanctuary no one dared to trespass. In that space, she wasn't Isabella Rostov, daughter of the Spanish mafia's patriarch. She was simply an artist, signing her work under a pseudonym known only to three people: her agent, her father, and her father's financial adviser.
Her paintings sold in Madrid and Barcelona's most prestigious galleries, her enigmatic signature stirring curiosity while she remained in the shadows, watching from afar. The money flowed into her private account after her agent's cut, every detail cross-checked by her father's financial overseer—whether to protect her, or simply to keep her under watch, like a king who never stops monitoring his heir.
But Isabella had chosen her own path years ago. She never touched her father's wealth. She wanted nothing from that heavy inheritance. She had never once withdrawn from the account he'd forced her to open in her name, where he deposited her "allowance" as though she were still the teenage girl he once tried to shelter.
That silent rebellion was one of the deepest rifts between them.
But he had never broken her will.
No one would.
She brushed the first stroke across the canvas. She wasn't thinking about what she was painting—she let her hand speak in her place.
And perhaps, for the first time, her thoughts lingered on those golden eyes. How could a man truly possess eyes like molten gold, glinting like a predator's? They had reminded her of a wolf. And of the name he had spoken: Alexei Dragonov.
The color that bled onto the canvas was darker than she intended.
She didn't correct it.
Perhaps it wasn't just paint.
Perhaps it was the beginning of something entirely different.
—
The sun was sinking low, its last golden light streaming through the studio windows, kissing the ends of her hair and igniting the wet strokes of her new work. The brush was still in her hand, but her fingers had stilled minutes ago—ever since she'd heard the private jet roar above the trees as it carried him away.
He was gone.
She felt nothing defined. No relief. No dread.
Only the heavy quiet that comes before a storm.
Moments later, the studio door opened softly. She didn't turn. She already knew the sound of those footsteps.
Alejandro Rostov.
Her father.
A man who had never bowed to weakness—except where she was concerned.
He moved slowly toward her, his gaze falling briefly on the canvas before he spoke, his deep voice breaking the silence without preamble.
"The wedding will be next week."
She said nothing, setting her brush down with care and wiping her hands with a folded cloth.
"It will be here, in Spain, as you requested," he continued. "He agreed."
Then, after a pause, his eyes lingered on hers.
"And after… you'll go to Moscow with him. As his wife."
At last, she turned and met his gaze directly, unflinching.
"The agreement?" she asked quietly.
He nodded.
"As you wrote it. He changed nothing. You'll both sign before the ceremony."
Her exhale was soft, almost weightless, but it wasn't relief. It was resignation to what could no longer be undone.
Her father lowered himself into the chair by the wall, his eyes wandering over the studio.
"You still paint as though you've never grown up," he said with a faint smile.
Her reply was barely above a whisper.
"Here, no one blames me for the blood in my veins."
His silence stretched too long before he finally said, "I know you believe I've forced you into this marriage… but you don't understand what we stood to lose."
Her eyes stayed steady on his.
"I don't believe. I know. And I accept my choice."
He nodded once more, slow and deliberate, before rising to his feet.
"You'll be all right, Isabella," he said, as though convincing himself.
When he left, the door remained ajar, and for a moment she felt the world beyond the studio pressing in, as though her sanctuary had shifted forever.
But she was ready.
She would enter their world—on her own terms.
_____
Seven days before the wedding.
Dawn was only just creeping through the palace windows when Jenny cracked the door open, careful not to disturb the silence. She hesitated on the threshold, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Miss Isabella…"
Seeing that her mistress was still asleep, she ventured on, her words uncertain.
"There's a lady downstairs… a dressmaker. She's waiting for you."
Isabella stirred faintly beneath the sheets, her eyes still closed, her voice thick with drowsy disbelief.
"A dressmaker? What is she doing here? Who called for her? And why, at this hour of all hours?"
Jenny lowered her gaze, her reply timid, almost apologetic.
"She said Mr. Mikhail Malakov sent her… to design your wedding dress."
Isabella's eyes opened slowly, fixing on Jenny with the sharp clarity of someone who had just seen a ghost.
"Sent by who?" she asked, each word deliberate, her calm enough to make the poor girl swallow hard.
She said no more. Instead, Isabella rose from the bed with the unhurried composure of someone who refuses to be rattled.
She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and made no effort to change out of her nightclothes. Then she descended the stairs—step by measured step—her expression carrying the quiet wrath of someone who never forgives being woken before the light has called them.
In the center of the grand hall stood a woman of refined elegance, somewhere in her forties, flanked by two younger assistants balancing boxes, bolts of fabric, measuring tapes, and sketchbooks filled with preliminary designs.
The woman stepped forward at once, her smile bright and rehearsed.
"Miss Rostov! What an honor. I'm Clara Barriente, Mr. Malakov's personal designer. It is a privilege to work on your wedding gown."
Isabella regarded her for a long moment, then gestured faintly at her pajamas.
"As you can see… I'm perfectly dressed for such an occasion."
Clara's smile faltered for only a heartbeat before she recovered, flipping open her sketchbook with renewed determination.
"We have several preliminary concepts. But Mr. Malakov was very clear—you must choose only what suits your taste. His exact words were: Make her feel she chooses. Don't force her into anything."
Isabella arched a brow, unsure whether to be amused or more irritated by that remark. She moved forward with unhurried grace and lowered herself onto the sofa, crossing one leg over the other.
"Then let's begin… with what I despise most."
From behind, Jenny let out a quiet laugh, retreating to leave them alone.
Clara turned the first page: a sweeping white gown encrusted with jewels across the bodice, its train spilling like the tail of a peacock. Before she could speak, Isabella raised a hand.
"First—jewel-encrusted dresses. I detest them. I've no desire to look like I lost a brawl with a jewelry store."
Clara blinked, composed herself, and calmly turned to the next page: an ornate gown with gilded embroidery curling across the waist and sleeves.
"Second," Isabella said, her tone even but firm, "excessive embroidery makes me feel like a mural, not a bride. I am a person—not a canvas for someone else's artistry."
Clara's smile tightened, but she moved on, presenting a sleeker design, its back exposed and neckline daringly low.
Isabella studied it briefly before answering.
"And third—I don't wear revealing dresses. I see no reason to bare my body before a hall full of strangers. That's not my taste."
Her voice softened, but her poise remained intact.
"What I want is quiet… simplicity… no noise. I want to look as though I've stepped out of a painting, not a fashion show."
This time Clara nodded with genuine respect. She lowered herself into a seat beside Isabella, pencil in hand, asking about fabrics, colors, veils long or short, the sweep of the train, the shape of the sleeves, even the inner corset.
The hours slipped by in hushed tones, the scratch of graphite mingling with soft exchanges and the occasional ripple of laughter. Isabella herself allowed a rare smile when Clara remarked that this would be the first wedding gown she'd ever designed without a shred of lace.
By the end, the table held the first sketch: a light, elegant gown with long silk sleeves, flowing simply without ornament, its waistline cut to flatter her figure without excess, its train modest. It looked less like a display of wealth and more like a whisper of beauty—silent, deliberate, and unforgettable.
As Clara gathered her papers, she said with a wry smile,
"Mr. Malakov warned me—you would hate everything. And it seems he was right."
Isabella lifted a brow in mock disdain but said nothing. At last, she remarked,
"Tell him I will wear what suits me… not what pleases his eye."
Then she rose, moving toward the stairs with the grace of someone who had already won. At the landing she added, a hint of humor curling her lips,
"And kindly do not send anyone else in the morning. I treasure sleep far more than any political alliance."
---
It was late afternoon when Isabella returned from a short stroll among the garden's blossoms. Barefoot, she carried a cup of coffee in one hand and a small painter's knife in the other, trimming away wilted leaves clinging stubbornly to the trunk of an old tree in the back garden.
She drifted lazily into the grand hall, and had barely set foot on the marble staircase when Jenny appeared, moving with hesitant steps.
"My lady…" she began, faltering.
"There's… a makeup artist downstairs. She's waiting for you."
Isabella stopped halfway up the stairs, turning slowly to look at her, as though she'd just been handed a riddle in Mandarin.
"A what artist?" she asked coolly, one brow arched.
"Makeup, my lady. She said she was sent by Mr. Mikhail Malakov."
Isabella blinked twice, then asked in a voice steeped in composure,
"Do I look as though I'm in need of makeup?"
She traced a finger across her bare face, her tone bone-dry.
"I've worn nothing on my skin, and the world has yet to collapse. Wouldn't you agree?"
Jenny bit back a laugh with difficulty.
"I believe… she only wishes to test shades for the wedding."
Isabella was silent for a moment, then murmured as she continued up the stairs,
"Is Mikhail planning to send me his entire wedding crew every two hours? Shall I expect a manicurist at midnight?"
Jenny hurriedly asked,
"Shall I tell her to come back later?"
But at the top of the stairs Isabella lifted her hand with casual dismissal.
"No… I'll see her. But if she dares put more than a feather's touch on my face, I'll trade her brushes for my palette knives."
Minutes later, Isabella sat in the lounge chair, clad in a simple cotton shirt, her hair pinned up carelessly. The makeup artist entered—a young woman dressed in black, sleek, professional, composed.
"Miss Rostov, it's an honor to work with you," she said warmly.
Isabella did not return the smile.
"I'll be frank. I dislike layers of paint. I refuse to look like a wax figure. No false lashes. No suffocating foundations."
The artist nodded instantly, respectful.
"Of course. I'll keep your features natural—just a whisper of clarity, nothing overwhelming."
"Good," Isabella replied softly. "I don't want anyone thinking I'm hiding behind colors."
The session lasted only an hour. When it was done, Isabella studied her reflection: the same face she knew, yet softened—her eyes faintly shadowed, her lips a natur
al rose.
"This…" she murmured, "is acceptable."
Then, glancing at the artist, she added,
"Tell Mikhail I need no cosmetics to look strong. But a touch of artistry now and then… I'll allow."
-----------
Evening crept over the Rostov estate, spring air carrying the scent of lemons and jasmine through the open windows. Isabella sat in a quiet corner of the hall, leafing through old sketches that had wandered from her studio to the coffee table.
Then came the sharp rhythm of heels striking marble—each step deliberate, certain.
She lifted her gaze to find a woman in her fifties sweeping into view: extravagantly elegant, hair coiffed to perfection, lips painted in a deep burgundy. In one hand she carried an opulent leather planner, bulging with papers, and in the other, a pair of sunglasses she hadn't bothered to wear though the sun had set an hour ago.
"Isabella!" she declared, her voice rich with theatrical urgency, as though arriving to rescue the day.
Isabella sighed softly, setting her sketch aside.
"Good evening, Aunt Marisa. I knew you would appear eventually."
Marisa advanced with stately assurance, brushed her niece's cheek with a perfunctory kiss, then seated herself uninvited, dropping the planner onto the table with a decisive thud.
"I've heard the news," she announced, flipping through pages.
"A wedding? In a week? There ought to be mourning, not celebration!"
Isabella arched a brow.
"Of all people, you might be the only one capable of turning mourning into a gala if asked to arrange it."
Marisa laughed lightly, waving a hand.
"Oh, darling… marriage to the head of the Bratva? The wedding must be legendary. I've already begun drafting the team."
She rattled off names with unchecked enthusiasm.
"The florist from Seville, the pianist from Florence, the pâtissier who crafted a duke's daughter's cake—"
Isabella raised her hand with calm finality.
"Aunt… I want something simple. Small. Elegant. Not an opera performance."
Marisa stared at her as though she'd suggested holding the ceremony in a chicken coop.
"Simple? My dear, you're marrying a Russian beast! We must prove we're no less than they are."
Isabella's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Marriage isn't war. At least… not yet."
Marisa studied her niece, then shut the planner with deliberate slowness.
"Very well. I'll rein in the grandeur. But only because you're the bride—and because you look as though you could strangle me with the embroidery from your gown."
Isabella smiled without showing her teeth.
"I'll wear white, yes. But don't mistake that for angelic."
This time Marisa laughed with genuine delight before rising.
"I do love that tone in you. You remind me of your mother. She was just the same."
The air grew still for a moment, until Isabella whispered, barely audible,
"I wish she were here now…"
Marisa said nothing—only touched her shoulder with rare tenderness before replying,
"You'll be fine. Leave the arrangements to me. I'll ensure this wedding feels like a velvet threat to anyone foolish enough to cross you."
She resumed her seat opposite, reopened her planner, and drew a golden pen with brisk determination.
"Now, to the essentials. Tomorrow: the salon. A deep cleanse, a gold mask, Swedish massage… of course waxing, whitening, nails. Then your signature perfume—one that arrives two steps before you."
Isabella gave her a flat look.
"A perfume that precedes me? To frighten spirits from the room before I enter?"
Unmoved, Marisa pressed on.
"Then the fittings—once, twice, three times if needed. Hair, naturally, with a stylist flown in from Paris. And makeup! A famous Russian artist handpicked by the groom himself. Ah, what taste he has."
Isabella leaned back, sliding a cushion behind her, her tone slow and dry.
"Marisa… I loathe massages. I loathe strangers touching me. And I don't need a facial—I barely leave this house."
Marisa stilled, regarding her.
"But this is your wedding, child! You must look as though you've stepped from a painting."
Isabella exhaled, lifting her hand in surrender.
"Fine. Make the list, because I honestly don't know. But… don't touch my hair."
Marisa arched her brows.
"No cutting—only polishing and styling?"
"Not even a thought of cutting," Isabella replied firmly. Then, with steel in her voice:
"Choose what you wish, but remember—I will not be transformed into some Russian Barbie doll."
Marisa chuckled, scribbling a note.
"No doll, understood. But a bride? Yes. And the papers will write: The Rostov bride who tamed the Russian butcher."
Isabella paused, then allowed a small smile.
"Better: The bride who made the butcher reconsider the sharpness of his own blade."
This time Marisa laughed
in earnest.
"Oh, it will be a wedding no one will ever forget. I can feel it."