The grand Petrov mansion, usually a place of constant, subtle tension, settled into an unsettling calm after Pavel's outburst and the quiet storm of the warehouse incident. For Vera, the following days were a study in denial. Her father, Vladimir, was consumed by business—a flurry of phone calls and closed-door meetings, determined to show the world that his Glava status was unshakeable. Her mother, Zoya, immersed herself in her elaborate charity galas and foundation work, the Italian princess determined to keep up appearances.
Pavel, usually a strong presence, was now just a distant shadow. He returned to university for his final exams, a perfect excuse for his sudden lack of visibility. Vera, navigating her own last year of High School, found herself yearning for the easygoing banter they once shared, now replaced by the chilling silence of shared, unaddressed fear. Everyone, it seemed, had conveniently forgotten Pavel's urgent warning about Sergio Zhukova, even the fire incident at the industrial zone was forgotten.Everyone moved around their daily activities.
One crisp autumn evening, as the last remnants of the sunset bled through her window, Vera was in her silk dressing gown, preparing for bed. The sudden, insistent call from her mother shattered the peace.
"Vera, come to the living room! We have guests!"
Her heart instantly skipped a beat, fluttering wildly against her ribs. Guests this late, unannounced? A cold dread—a familiar, icy finger of anxiety—traced its way down her spine.
She descended the main staircase, the air growing heavier with each step. In the cavernous living room, bathed in the soft, intimidating glow of the crystal chandelier, sat her nightmare: Sergio Zhukova and his son, Kiril. Sergio looked comfortable, almost lordly, occupying the plush sofa as if he already owned the room.
Vera dreaded Sergio like a plague since Pavel's raw, fearful warning. Every glance from the man felt like a threat.
"Vera, come and say hello," her mother said, her smile wide, a mask of Italian hospitality Vera recognized as utterly fake.
Vera moved forward, her steps feeling leaden. Her eyes, drawn by an unwilling magnet, met Kiril's. He has the charming, expectant smile that didn't quite reach those cold depths.
"Hello, Vera," Kiril said, his voice a smooth baritone, rising effortlessly. He crossed the distance between them with a predator's confidence, taking her hand.
Her skin trembled beneath his touch. It was possessive, warm, and utterly unwelcome. Her mind screamed: What were they doing here? And what was it with that look on Kiril's face? The hope—the sickening, dizzying fear—that this wasn't about an alliance, but an engagement, solidified into agonizing certainty.
The connection she felt with him,the other day was gone. She glared hard at him– if looks could kill, he'll be six feet gone.
Vera's face grew hot with a rush of shame and panic. She quickly pulled her hand away from Kiril's grasp as if touching fire. "Hello," she managed to mutter, the single word sticking in her dry throat.
Sergio Zhukova finally broke the tension, his voice booming with false camaraderie. His eyes sparkled with smug satisfaction. "Vladimir and I have come to an agreement, Zoya. A matter of destiny, wouldn't you say? Our families will be united in marriage."
Vera's eyes widened to saucers. The knot she had felt in her stomach twisted into a painful vise, crushing the air from her lungs. For a few agonizing minutes, she was utterly unable to breathe.
"No," she managed to whisper, shaking her head in desperate denial. The sound was thin, fragile, swallowed immediately by the thick velvet draperies and rich Persian rugs.
But her parents were not listening. She have always known they were to be engaged,but she didn't expect it to be this soon. Not when Pavel was still suspecting them.
Her parents were beaming with pride and relief. This was an alliance that would cement the power structure—a perfect, traditional move. Kiril, meanwhile, was gazing at her with a look of terrifying, cold, possessive glare
.
Then, he did it. He smiled, a knowing, wicked curve of his lips, and winked at her—a gesture of utter condescension.
This wasn't the same Kiril she felt a connection with. This was a monster inhabiting his body. The way he looked at her like–finally you'll be mine. This was a younger version of Nikolai and somehow she hated it. She hates him and his godforsaken family, the God-forsaken idiot! Vera thought, her panic boiling into a sudden, white-hot rage. He was gloating. He was behaving nastily, as if they had planned this entire scenario, and she was nothing more than the key instrument to unlock their power.
"It's time for you to get married, Vera," her father declared, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Kiril is a good man. He will take care of you. This is how the Glava's family secures its future."
Kiril walked closer to her again and whispered silently into her eyes." My Woman"
A full wave of pure panic washed over Vera. His woman? Marry Kiril? The thought was absurd! She didn't even know him, and he was a mere year older than her, a boy masquerading as a man, yet already radiating the cruel ambition of his father.
She felt like gripping his neck tightly and squeeze it do hard, till he stops breathing. Memories of how she and Pavel were trained to be pitiless by squeezing chickens necks till they stop breathing, came flooding her head and she suddenly felt like doing the same to her so called fiancé.
But the wheels were already turning. The engagement was announced, the terms sealed, and the wedding was set for a terrifyingly short few months later.