"He doesn't look at people, Papa. He hunts them. I can’t... I can’t be controlled by him. He makes me feel like I’m going to shatter just by standing in the same room."
Boris scoffs, letting go of my chin with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "You are a Petrov. Don’t embarrass yourself. I’ll be waiting downstairs. Fifteen minutes. If you aren't at the top of that staircase, I will come back up here, and you won't like the way I walk you down."
He turns on his heel and leaves. The door thuds shut, and the lock clicks from the outside—a subtle reminder that I am a prisoner in a castle made of silk and gold.
But he forgot one thing. I’ve been a Petrov for twenty-five years. I know how to pick a lock, and I know how to bribe the help. I’ve been preparing for this fifteen-minute window for months.
The second the sound of his footsteps fades, I spring into action. I don't have fifteen minutes. I have ten.
The hell I’ll sit like a smiling fool while being forced to marry a mad man.
I reach under the bed, pulling out the small, black backpack I hid there two days ago. My hands fly to the back of the dress. The silk-covered buttons are a nightmare, designed to be undone by a husband, but I don't have time for a husband. I grab a pair of sewing shears from the vanity and—with a jagged, cathartic rip—I slice through the back of the "vision."
The lace falls away like dead skin. I step out of the ivory prison, standing in my silk slip, my heart hammering against my ribs. I feel lighter, but the terror is still there, a cold weight in my stomach.
I need to do this before I chicken out.
I pull on the black leggings, the oversized hoodie, and the sneakers I’ve kept hidden. I don't look like a Russian princess anymore. I look like a ghost. I shove my dark golden hair into a cap, sliding on the sunglasses despite the dim room.
I walk to the window. The penthouse is on the first floor of the garden wing, overlooking the manicured grounds of the hotel. I’ve spent weeks studying this view, calculating the distance between the guards' rounds.
I unlock the window and push. The cool New York air hits my face, and for the first time in six months, I can actually draw a full breath.
"Psst! Miss Irina?"
I look down. Standing in the shadows of the hedges is Tomas, a hotel employee whose gambling debts I paid off last month. He’s holding a sturdy gardener’s ladder against the stone ledge, his face pale and sweating.
"Is the coast clear, Tomas?" I whisper, my voice trembling with adrenaline and pure fear.
"The guards are all at the front entrance for the groom’s arrival. You have five minutes before the rounds change," he says, his eyes darting toward the corner of the building. "Are you really doing this? They’ll kill us both if they find out. Mikhail... he isn't a man who forgives."
"Then don't let them find out," I say, swinging my leg over the sill.
I climb down the ladder, my sneakers hitting the grass with a muffled thud. I don't look back. I run through the hedges, staying low, my eyes fixed on the gap in the wrought-iron fence I found during my "walks" last week.
As I round the corner of the west wing, I stop for a split second. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand ballroom, I can see the guests. It’s a sea of black suits and blood-red roses. And there, standing at the altar with his brother Artyom, is Mikhail.
Even from here, he’s unnerving. He’s six-foot-three, his frame athletic and lean, draped in a flashy Italian designer suit that Artyom would never be caught dead in. His dark golden hair is tousled, and even from fifty yards away, I can feel the weight of those dark blue eyes. He isn't standing like a man waiting for his bride; he stands like a wolf waiting for the cage to open so he can find someone to tear apart.
He looks bored. He looks dangerous. He looks like a man who doesn't believe in vows, only in victory.
I shudder. Artyom would have been a cage of ice—cold, but steady. Mikhail is a cage of fire. He unsettles me in ways I can’t name. He doesn't just see people; he looks through them, searching for the cracks. I’ve heard the whispers of his time in Naples, of him. The way he smiles when he’s about to break a man. When he looks at me, I don't feel like the polished heiress; I feel like a mark.
"We have to go!" Tomas whispers from the fence.
I tear my gaze away from Mikhail. "I'm coming."
We reach the corner of the hotel. A non-descript grey sedan is idling at the curb. I slide into the back seat, the upholstery smelling of stale coffee and cheap air freshener.
A man in a baseball cap is in the driver's seat. He doesn't look back. He just holds out a hand. I reach into my bag and pull out a thick envelope of cash—all the jewelry I could pawn without Papa’s guards noticing.
He hands me a small, dark blue booklet. I open it. My photo is there, but the name saysElena Sokolov.
"It’s a clean ID," the driver says, as he turns on the engine. "The flight is in three hours. Do you want to tell me where you're going, or is that a secret too?"
As the car pulls away, I look at the window of the hotel one last time. Somewhere in there, a bell is ringing. The fifteen minutes are up. My father is walking into an empty room, and his rage will be a storm the city hasn't seen in decades. Mikhail is standing at an altar, waiting for a bride who is already miles away. The scandal will be tectonic. The Petrov and Morozov alliance will turn into a cold war.
"Somewhere warm," I say, my voice steadying despite the tremor in my hands. "Somewhere very, very warm."
