Page 61 of His Stolen Bride

He’s right. I am.

I sit in the chair across from him and pull the paper closer with my fingertips, not to read it again, but to line it up the way I learned as a girl. The structure matters. The words matter less.

“First line is for your people,” I say. “Vienna remembers its debts. That’s a reach line. He’s testing who repeats it.”

Mikhail’s jaw tics once.

“Second line is information,” I continue. “The boy is not invisible. He’s not saying he has him. He’s saying he knows he exists. That’s a warning and a flex.”

Enzo’s mouth tightens. “He’s reaching, he knows we wouldn’t⁠—”

“Nothing is guaranteed,” I say. “Especially safety. Now we work with that.”

Mikhail’s eyes sharpen. “Third line?”

I tap it once with my nail. “That’s the point. What was promised can still be honored. He’s not talking about routes or money. He’s talking about me.”

Silence hits fast, and it’s not empty. It’s all the missing context slotting into place.

Mikhail’s voice drops. “He wasn’t only a rival buyer.”

“No,” I say. “He was the intended one.”

Enzo swears under his breath, then shuts up when Mikhail turns his head a fraction. Mikhail’s hand slides along the edge of the desk like he needs something physical. “My guess is that Morozov never told Vladimir about Sergei, and he found out about the second buyer days before putting the hit on your father.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Yeah,” I muster. “He doesn’t seem like the forgiving type.”

“And he killed your mother too, just so he could prove the same point. He’s getting rid of everything that he sees as a potential block between you and him,” Mikhail murmurs. “Which means Oisin is in very real danger.”

Mikhail sits still for a beat, then he stands and steps away from the desk, his shoulders tight under his shirt. He doesn’t pace like a man who’s lost control. He moves like a man who’s deciding how to cut a problem open.

“He’s been doing this for years,” Mikhail says, half to himself and half to the room. “He watched. He waited. He hit you while you were under my roof, and he hit you again when you were away from it.”

“He wanted you blamed,” I say. “He wanted the story to be that you couldn’t keep me safe.”

Mikhail turns back to me. “You think he planned your escape attempt.”

“I think he allowed it,” I answer. “I think he used it.”

Enzo’s eyes harden. “Lira.”

“Yes,” I say. “She wasn’t loyal to me.”

Mikhail doesn’t flinch at the name, and I clock that he’s already handled it, fully and permanently, the way he told me he did. The information matters less than the implication.

“If he was the intended groom,” Mikhail says, “then none of this was about Sergei alone.”

“No,” I answer. “Sergei’s death gave him cover. It gave him a clean reason to escalate without admitting what he wanted.”

Mikhail’s voice stays controlled. “A stolen bride.”

I nod. “He thinks you took something that was already contracted.”

Enzo shifts again. “So he wants her back.”

“He wants a win,” I say. “He wants it public enough that your rivals talk about it, then he wants it quiet enough that no one can call it weakness on his side.”

Mikhail’s eyes lock on mine. “He’s messaging you, not me. He wants your consent on paper.”