He laughs, and the sound lights me up just as much as any orgasm does.
The next morning, Rovin lays the contracts out on the dining table.
Marriage contracts. Not a standard prenuptial agreement, or the kind of document a solicitor drafts in a city office with carefully negotiated clauses and exit strategies. This is a Mostovoi contract, dense with provisions I've never seen before, written in language that blends legal precision with something older and more absolute.
I read it slowly. Rovin sits across from me, not interrupting. Letting me process.
The contract establishes me as Rovin's wife under both civil and family law. It grants me access to the household accounts, the residential properties, and a personal trust funded with an amount that makes my eyes widen before I school my expression. It names me as the mother of his heirs and grants me shared authority over their education, security, and upbringing.
And then there's the final clause.
In the event of Rovin Mostovoi's death, Claudia Mostovoi assumes full guardianship of all children and retains all marital assets and protections in perpetuity. The Mostovoi family pledges the ongoing security, financial support, and familial recognition of Claudia Mostovoi as the surviving matriarch.
I read the clause three times. Then I look up.
"You've made me permanent," I say. "Even if you die."
"Especially if I die. My brothers will protect you. The family structure ensures it. You will never be left unprotected, regardless of what happens to me."
I set the contract down. My hands aren’t shaking, but it takes effort.
"This is more than I expected."
"It's less than you deserve." He leans forward, forearms on the table, and his eyes hold mine. "You came to me with nothing left. No family support, no financial safety net, your reputation shredded by the press. You came with intelligence and courage and the audacity to walk across a room and tell a man like me that you chose him. That is worth more than any financial asset I possess."
I blink. The backs of my eyes sting, and I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, hard, until the feeling passes.
"I’ll sign it," I say.
He produces a pen. I sign. He signs. The contract sits between us on the table, binding us together in ink and intention.
"Is there a date for the wedding?" I ask, thinking back to dinner last night and how we are the first and it needs to be soon.
"Saturday."
"That's four days from now. I need to get a dress."
Rovin
I stand at the windows and wait for my wife.
The word has been living inside me for days now, taking up space, rearranging everything around it.Wife.The contracts were four days ago. The ring has been in my pocket since. And the woman who chose me is in the guest room with a stylist and the kind of focused calm that I have only ever seen in people who are absolutely certain of their decisions.
Akyl arrives first with Katriona. He is dressed precisely, charcoal suit, no tie, the family cufflinks at his wrists. He looks at me, and whatever he sees on my face makes him pause.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like a man about to detonate."
I take a deep breath. "That's not inaccurate."
He comes to stand beside me at the window. We look out at the city, the skyline we've built our lives around, and he is quiet for a long moment.
"Mom would have liked her," he says.
The words land hard. I keep my face neutral, but Akyl knows me better than anyone, and he sees the impact.
