There was only this. Just him and the sharp, intoxicating knowledge that I had chosen this. When he lifted me into his arms and carried me toward the bedroom, I didn’t protest. I didn’t hesitate. The city lights blurred behind sheer curtains as he lay me down on cool sheets that smelled faintly of something dark and clean. He hovered over me for a second, studying my face like he was committing it to memory.
“Elle,” he said quietly.
The name felt lighter than my real one.
“Yes.”
“If you want me to stop—”
“I thought you were finally done asking me that question.”
He chuckled. “I don’t want you to do something you might end up regretting in the morning.”
“Will you regret it?” I asked, my eyes trained on him.
“Not for a single second.”
“Then I won’t either.”
And then I pulled him down to me. The rest unfolded in heat and intensity, kisses turning to gasps, hands exploring, boundaries dissolving piece by piece. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t careless. It was all-consuming. Sensation narrowed my world until there was nothing but him and his mouth, his hands, and the way he said my name like it mattered. I didn’t think about tomorrow.
I didn’t think about consequence.
For the first time in a long time, I existed without calculation.
And when the world finally stilled, when breath slowed, and the city lights softened beyond the windows, I found myself wrapped in his arms. His fingers traced absent patterns along my spine almost protectively.
The weight I carried every day, the surname, the expectations, the invisible chessboard of my life, felt distant. As if his presence had muted everything that was once displayed boldly on the poster of my life. He didn’t speak, and neither did I, both of us inhaling one another. But his arm tightened slightly around me, as if it was instinctive. I could feel the possession he felt in that touch, and rather than making me want to run away, it made me feel safe.
My eyes drifted closed slowly.
This version of me, the woman without obligation, without strategy, without the constant awareness of what my existence meant politically, could only exist here. With him.
In this bed.
In this penthouse.
In his arms.
For one night.
And as sleep pulled me under, I let myself believe that was enough.
Chapter 4 - Fyodor
“Sit.” Kliment didn’t look up when he said it because frankly, he didn’t have to.
The office was quiet in a way that felt engineered. I already knew it had soundproofed walls behind the dark wood paneling. A single strip of light cut across the massive desk like a blade. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, but the blinds were half drawn, reducing Miami to slashes of silver between black.
I remained standing for a second longer than necessary, which seemed like a small act of defiance on my part, but I knew that it was unnecessary. Kliment was older than me, and he was blood. He was the one who had worked tirelessly to bring us to this position, and he had never stopped to think about himself. He cared about this family, and he wanted to do nothing but secure our future and position. It was never easy to work with him, but it didn’t mean that I didn’t respect him.
I finally sat down, wondering why he had summoned me. My brother finally lifted his gaze.
Kliment Romanov had always looked like the future carved in stone with his sharp lines, cold eyes, and a posture that was too rigid to be accidental. He wore authority like skin, and it fit him effortlessly.
But lately, there was something else beneath it. I had sensed his obsession.
“You’ve been distracted,” he said.
