Page 18 of His Stolen Bride

Mikhail’s jaw tightens. “Don’t use grief as a weapon on me.”

I laugh once, short and ugly. “What else do I have?”

His eyes flick over my face, and for a fraction of a second I think I see something human. Then it’s gone.

“You’ll call her tomorrow,” he says. “If you cooperate.”

I don’t like the condition, but I take it anyway. “Fine.”

Mikhail turns his head toward the door, then pauses. “If you lie to me,” he says, “your mother pays.”

My stomach drops, sharp and sick. “You said she was safe.”

“She is,” he replies. “Don’t change that.”

He opens the door and steps out.

I stand there after he leaves, staring at the empty space he took up.

My hands shake when I finally let them. It’s not because I’m weak. It’s because my entire world just got uglier.

Twice.

I sit on the edge of the bed again and press my palms against my eyes until I see sparks. My father’s voice runs through my head, too familiar, too casual.

Just a little more, Alya.

He said it for years.

And I believed him, because believing him made the days easier.

Now I’m in a mansion in Vienna wearing a ring that isn’t mine, and a man I barely know just told me my future was sold twice, and the only thing I can hold onto is that he doesn’t know who the second buyer is.

Which means I might get to move first.

By morning, I’m exhausted and wired at the same time. I shower, dress in the simple outfit someone left for me, and sit at the desk by the window with a blank piece of paper.

If I’m going to remember, I need to stop spinning and start sorting.

I write down every name I can think of that ever showed up around my father. Men from the bar. Men from the building. Men who shook his hand too hard. Men who called and hung up when I answered.

The list is pathetic.

It’s also a start.

A knock comes at the door mid-morning. I open it to a maid holding a tray. She keeps her gaze down, hands steady.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it, because politeness is a tool too.

She hesitates, then nods and leaves quickly. The guards don’t speak. They don’t need to. Their presence says everything.

At noon, Enzo appears at the door with another man. Enzo’s face is unreadable, but his eyes take in my posture, the desk, the paper.

“You’re up,” he says.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I reply. “Is that allowed?”

Enzo doesn’t smile. “You were told you can walk the garden. Now.”