"Which is?"
"You had every opportunity to become of interest to him, and he didn’t want you. He met me formally, once, and knew within a few minutes that I could be exactly what he needed. Those are different things. I chose him and he chose me right back."
Marina's expression flickers. Anger moves behind her polished facade.
"You're naive," she says. "You think because you're living in his house and sleeping in his bed that you matter? You're a spent politician's daughter with a ruined name. You're useful to him right now because you're convenient and willing. The moment someone better comes along—"
"Marina."
The voice comes from behind me, and it’s not one of the security team. It’s Rovin.
He is standing in the entrance of the estate, wearing a dark coat over his suit, and his expression is absolutely empty.
Marina goes white.
Rovin walks forward without hurrying. He moves with the measured pace of a man who has never needed to rush because the world waits for him, not the other way around. He stops beside me and his hand finds the small of my back, settling there with a weight that is both comforting and proprietary.
"I was hoping for a word with Claudia," Marina says, and her voice has lost its sharpness. It sounds thin now. Uncertain.
"You've had your word." Rovin's voice is soft. Quiet. Absolutely lethal. "Now hear mine. Claudia is under my protection. She carries my name. She will be my wife. If you approach her again, speak to her again, or attempt to contact her through any channel, I will dismantle every business relationship your family has built with mine over the past fifteen years. Your father's shipping contracts through our ports will be cancelled. Your brother's security arrangements will be terminated. Every door that the Mostovoi name has opened for the Sidorov family will close, permanently, and it will happen so fast that your family will be left spinning."
Marina's mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
"Leave," Rovin says softly, but with no less menace. "Now."
She turns. Her heels click on the wet pavement as she heads to a car parked just out of sight, sharp and rapid, fading into the morning sounds.
Rovin's hand is still on my back. I look up at him, and the emptiness in his expression is cracking, and what leaks throughis fury and something else, something protective and fierce and so tender it makes me ache.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm fine. She's not a threat to me."
"She spoke to you. She came to my estate and spoke to you with the intention of undermining you. That is a threat."
"Rovin." I turn to face him. I place my hand on his chest, over his heart, and I feel it hammering against my palm. "I handled it."
"I heard what you said." His jaw works. "That you chose me."
He covers my hand with his own, pressing it harder against his chest, and for a moment we stand on the pavement outside his home, in the grey drizzle of the morning, with the security team pretending to look elsewhere and the rain starting up again.
"I was coming to find you," he says. "I was watching from the window. I saw her approach and I came down."
"You were watching me run."
"I watch you every morning. From the bedroom window. I watch you leave, and I count the minutes until you come back.” He kisses the palm of my hand. “I’m aware that this makes me unhinged and I don't care."
A laugh breaks out of me, sudden and real, and Rovin looks startled, and then his face softens.
"Come inside," he says. "We should prepare for dinner."
He takes my hand, and we walk into the house together.
Rovin
Greta has been cooking since three in the afternoon, filling the kitchen and the downstairs hallway with garlic and rosemary.
Dinner for ten. My brothers and their women gathered around my table for the first time since the auction, and the awareness that this is what I asked for. What I demanded. Legacy. Family. The table used by more than just me.
