Nikolai leaned back in the leather chair, staring at the flickering shadows dancing on the wall. He wasn't afraid. Fear had been carved out of him years ago, replaced by precision and ice.
"What do you suggest?" he said flatly.
"Marriage," the old man said. "Don Sinclair is offering his daughter. Elena."
The name meant nothing to him. A girl. A pawn. Another contract wrapped in silk and lace.
Nikolai's jaw tightened. "And if I refuse?"
"He aligns with the Antonellis instead. You lose access to the port. You lose territory. You lose... leverage."
Silence stretched, heavy as smoke. Nikolai turned his gaze to the glass in his hand, watching the amber swirl.
He didn't want a wife. He didn't need a distraction. Love was a weakness-he'd seen what it did to men like him. Made them sloppy. Soft.
But this wasn't about love.
This was war.
"Fine," he said, voice like frost. "Set the date."
The consigliere gave a slow nod. "She won't come willingly."
Nikolai swirled his drink with a smirk, an evil glint in his eyes-a cold, ruthless thing. "She doesn't have to."
Willing or not, she was his now.
He drained the glass and stood, the weight of power settling on his shoulders like an old friend.
Let the girl hate him.
Let her fight, scream, curse his name.
He'd dealt with worse than a Sinclair princess with a temper.
And if she thought she'd escape him?
She'd learn quickly-No one walks away from the devil once he claims them.
He walked toward the window, staring out at the city that had bled for him, killed for him, betrayed him.
Once, he'd wanted more than this-more than blood and broken promises.
But that was before.
Before the bodies.
Before the betrayal.
Before he buried the boy and became a king.
Now?
He wanted loyalty. Obedience. Control.
And if that meant marrying a girl who hated his name, so be it.
She would bend.
Or she would break.
Either way, she would be his.
⸻ Blood. Power. Her. ⸻
Elena lay sprawled on her bed, phone to her ear, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"He's definitely into you," Camilla's voice crackled through the speaker, smug and full of drama.
Elena rolled her eyes with a grin. "Oh please. The man asked for my coffee order, not my hand in marriage."
"You're delusional. That man looked at you like you were dessert."
"Yeah? Well, I'm not on the menu."
Camilla laughed. "Yet."
Elena sighed, stretching her limbs like a cat. The warmth of the late afternoon sun spilled through her windows, painting her walls gold. For the first time in weeks, she felt... calm.
"For real," she murmured. "I'm just happy I get to have some time to myself this summer."
"I know rightt, tell me about it. Where do you want to explore this summer?"
"Probably Africa.."
"No way you're going a thousand miles away from home"
"Yes way darling. I have been going through some itineraries and I'd love to explore their cultural heritages."
"Girl, you're insane... But I love it!"
Laughter bubbled between them. For a moment, Elena forgot about the guards outside her bedroom door, the cold walls of the estate, the bloodlines she belonged to. She was just a girl, talking to her best friend about nothing important. No bodyguards breathing down her neck. No formal dinners with men twice her age. No-
She closed her eyes, let herself pretend.
Then-a knock. Sharp. Final.
"Miss Sinclair," came a voice. One of her father's men. "Your father demands your presence. Now."
The air shifted.
Her stomach tightened.
She ended the call without a word.
Her father never asked. He summoned.
⸻ Iron and Silence. ⸻
The heavy oak doors to her father's office loomed like a gateway to something colder than death.
Elena walked in, spine straight, chin lifted. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
Don Sinclair sat behind a polished desk the size of a car, hands clasped in front of him, eyes sharp as razors. The room smelled like leather, tobacco, and old secrets.
"You called for me," she said, voice even.
"I don't call, Elena," he replied, his tone devoid of warmth. "I command. Sit."
She didn't move at first. Let the silence stretch-just to remind him she wasn't entirely obedient. Then she lowered herself into the chair across from him, legs crossed, gaze steady.
He studied her for a moment. "You've grown too comfortable here."
"Apologies," she said with a fake sweetness. "I'll start practicing my curtsies."
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. "You're being married."
Elena froze.
"To Nikolai Moretti."
To her left, her mother sat on the antique settee, hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes downcast. She hadn't spoken a word since Elena entered.
Of course she wouldn't.
Elena's chest tightened, but she didn't look at her.
The name hit like a slap. Ice ran down her spine. She blinked, once. Twice. "You're joking."
"I don't joke."
"You're selling me to a monster."
"I'm aligning this family with power," he said coolly. "You're the price."
She stood so quickly her chair scraped back. "You can't just-"
"I can. I already have."
He leaned back, as calm as a judge delivering a sentence. "The wedding is tomorrow. You'll obey, or you'll regret it."
Elena's hands trembled at her sides, but she didn't let him see. She forced herself to breathe, to look him in the eye.
And then she turned and walked out without another word.
If she stayed a second longer, she might've shattered the glass in his damn desk.
Or worse-begged him not to do this.
And Elena Sinclair didn't beg.
Not for anyone.
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