The car door swung open, and a thousand flashes erupted like gunfire.
Nadya blinked, momentarily blinded. The Moscow air was heavy with exhaust and perfume. Cameras clicked. Voices called names, titles.
Alexei extended a hand, tilting his head slightly. "Eyes up, milaya. You're Mrs Romanov tonight. Try to look like you like it."
Her fingers slid into his, cool and trembling. "I'll try not to ruin your big night," she said, sweetly enough to draw a faint curl at his mouth.
"You couldn't, even if you tried."
They stepped out together.
The crowd swallowed her whole. Emerald silk clung to her curves, a slash of colour among black tuxedos and glittering gowns.
Every flash made her flinch, though she smiled in what she hoped was poised, the perfect ornament to a Romanov.
Inside, the air smelled of money: crystal, perfume, and the faint metallic tang of power. A string quartet hummed above murmurs of laughter and deals disguised as greetings. Gold chandeliers fractured the marble floors into mirrors reflecting her unease.
Nadya leaned closer, her voice a whisper. "Where exactly did you bring me?"
Alexei didn't look at her. His lips quirked. "A charity gala. For orphans."
She arched a brow. "And what are you laundering tonight—souls or cash?"
He smiled faintly. "Both, if I do it right."
Alexei guided her through the double doors into the ballroom. Conversation paused at her entrance, then resumed, polite smiles laced with curiosity and venom.
So this was the empire her brother had died for—men in tuxedos, women with diamonds heavy with blood. Enemies disguised as friends. Deals masked as toasts.
"Mrs Romanov," a willowy brunette said, lips berry-red. "You're even lovelier in person. Such courage, marrying so soon after…" She let the pause linger. "…your family's tragedy."
Nadya's smile didn't crack. "Grief is such a tedious companion," she said softly. "I thought I'd try replacing it with something more entertaining."
The woman blinked, taken aback. Alexei's quiet laugh beside her was low and dangerous—approving, almost.
Within minutes, she was swept into a tide of polished falsities.
Introductions came like blades disguised as greetings.
"Oh, the Mrs Romanov," purred another woman, her diamonds heavy enough to crack bone. "We've heard so little about you. Tell us—what was your family name again?"
"Irrelevant, apparently," Nadya said, politely.
A silver-haired matron leaned in. "Alexei must enjoy the novelty of marrying… ordinary."
Alexei didn't intervene.
She met the older woman's eyes. "I suppose he does enjoy new experiences," Nadya said sweetly. "Apparently, fake has gone out of fashion."
Forced laughs. A flicker of surprise. Alexei's lips curved—amusement or warning, she couldn't tell.
They moved on. He guided her with a hand at her waist, the possessive gesture casual to anyone watching—but Nadya could feel the control threaded through it.
"Not bad," he murmured once they were out of earshot. "A little sharp, but it suits you."
She sipped champagne she couldn't taste. "You left me there on purpose."
"Of course. You needed the practice."
"For what?"
His gaze slid to her throat, slow. "Survival."
*-*-*-*-*
When he excused himself to speak with older men, Nadya exhaled and scanned the room. Opportunity.
She needed information—a weakness. A thread to pull that could unravel him.
And then she saw him, a man with a receding hairline and a heavy gold watch, standing near the buffet. Viktor Petrov. One of her father's old allies. He hadn't answered her summons before.
Her pulse quickened as she wove through the crowd.
"Mr Petrov," she greeted softly.
He turned, startled. "Mrs Romanov." His lips struggled around the title. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Neither did I," she said, smile calm, eyes sharp. "I didn't know you were involved in Romanov business."
He hesitated. "I'm not. Not directly."
"Mm." She tilted her head. "Strange. Ivan always said you were too loyal to retire."
His breath hitched. The mention of her brother landed like she'd expected.
"What do you want?" he asked quietly.
Nadya glanced past him to make sure Alexei was still occupied. "Just... clarity. There was talk before Ivan died. About shipments. Missed payments. Someone is moving weapons through the humanitarian lines."
Petrov's eyes darted toward Alexei, then back to her. "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answers to, girl."
"On the contrary," she said softly, stepping closer, "I want all the answers."
A beat. Then he sighed, wiped sweat from his temple. "Your brother was sniffing too close to something. The deal in Belarus wasn't about aid. It was about control. Romanov control. He tried to stop it."
Her throat tightened. "And Alexei?"
"Ask him yourself, you married for that reason, right?"
He turned away—conversation over.
Nadya felt his eyes before she saw him.
Alexei stood across the room, drink still in hand, expression unreadable.
She looked away first. Always safer that way.
*-*-*-*-*
Nadya found herself at the bar, trying to untangle the new information she had just received.
Every piece she gathered led her further from understanding and closer to something dangerous.
"Care for another drink, Mrs Romanov?"
The voice startled her.
She turned to find a man in his twenties smiling at her—sleek blond hair, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that said he'd never been denied anything he wanted.
"Do I know you?" she asked.
"Not yet," he said, extending a hand. "Andrei Kovacs. My father's the reason we're pretending to care about orphans tonight."
"Ah. Arms-dealing royalty." She took his hand lightly. "How noble."
He laughed, low and easy. "We all need hobbies. You look bored."
"I'm not bored," she said, "just taking everything in."
"Translation: you hate these people."
A startled laugh slipped out before she could stop it. "Maybe I just hate small talk."
"Then let's make it big talk," he said, raising his glass. "Tell me something real."
She studied him. Too confident, too curious—but that kind often talked too much. "Something real? I hate being underestimated."
Andrei grinned. "Then we have something in common. My father thinks I'm an idiot."
"Is he right?"
"Only when I drink." He winked. "Which is most of the time."
He leaned in, conspiratorial. "So—why marry him? Alexei Romanov? The Ice King? Everyone's guessing."
Her spine tightened; she kept her voice calm. "Which theory sounds better to you — love or leverage?"
"Andrei shrugged. "Alexei doesn't do anything without reason. Neither do you."
"Maybe I am the reason," she said.
He laughed, low and dangerous. Then he surprised her with a small, reckless invitation. "If you ever tire of playing perfect wife, find me. I prefer dangerous company."
"You might regret that," she warned.
"I never regret curiosity," he said, eyes frank. "It's how men like me die smiling."
A dangerous little promise—exactly the kind of careless confidence she could exploit. "What brings you here, besides free champagne?" she asked.
"Deals," he said. "The usual. Heard the Romanovs were sniffing around our trade routes. You'd know more than most, I suppose."
Her pulse stuttered. "Would I?"
"You married the man. Don't tell me he doesn't talk business in bed." He winked.
She laughed lightly, hiding her unease. "We talk about… other things."
Andrei smirked. "Pity. You could probably handle more than he thinks."
Before she could steer him further, the air shifted—the way it always did when Alexei was near.
Andrei's eyes flicked over her shoulder. "Ah," he murmured. "Speak of the devil."
Nadya didn't have to turn.
"Darling," Alexei's voice drawled, calm and cold, "you've made a friend."
Andrei straightened. "Mr Romanov."
"Mr Kovacs," Alexei said, smile thin as glass. "Still trying to sell your father's trash at full price?"
Andrei's throat bobbed. "Just enjoying your wife's company."
"I know," Alexei said softly. "That's why I came to collect her."
He placed a hand on Nadya's waist—gentle, possessive, final—and led her away.
*-*-*-*-*
"Was that really necessary?" she hissed once they were out of earshot.
"Absolutely." His tone was mild; his grip was not. "You seem to have a talent for finding men I dislike."
"Maybe you dislike all men who talk to me."
He smiled without warmth. "You seem to have a hard time understanding what's necessary."
"I'm not one of your men, Alexei."
"No," he said with a faint, cruel smile. "You're my wife. That's a harder shoe to fill."
Before she could snap back, the orchestra swelled.
He turned to her, offering his hand. "Dance with me, milaya."
"I don't remember agreeing."
"You married me," he murmured. "That counts."
She placed her hand in his. His touch burned through silk.
They stepped into the waltz, the room spinning around them in a blur of jewels and champagne. To the watching crowd, they were perfect—beautiful, composed, intoxicating. But beneath the surface, the dance was a duel.
"You've been busy," Alexei murmured near her ear. "Talking. Smiling. Hunting."
"Hunting?" she echoed sweetly. "For better company, maybe."
He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "Tell me, Nadya—what are you really hunting tonight?"
Her gaze flicked up, lips curving. "My husband's approval, apparently."
He laughed softly. "You think you want that?"
"Isn't that what I'm supposed to want?"
His hand slid lower on her back. "I've had to watch my beautiful wife drift from one man to another all evening. Should I be jealous?"
"Do you get jealous easily?"
"Only when I'm bored."
She smiled. "Then I suppose I should keep you entertained."
His brow quirked—a flicker of surprise.
She leaned in, changing the rhythm of the waltz, subtly guiding instead of following. He noticed, of course, amusement glinting in his eyes.
"What would it take," she murmured, tracing her hands down his sides, "for a girl like me to make a man like you confess something dangerous?"
He stilled. Then, voice like a blade: "Blood. Yours or mine—it hardly matters."
A thrill—part fear, part fascination—shot through her. "Then let's hope you bleed easier."
For a heartbeat, it was just his breath, her defiance, and the trembling orchestra. Then he smiled, cold and sharp.
The waltz ended. Polite applause followed.
Dinner blurred into a haze of toasts and veiled insults. Nadya smiled through backhanded compliments about her "humble roots," through whispers that she'd "snagged herself a Romanov."
Alexei intervened only when someone went too far—his defence always cutting enough to remind them whose wife she was.
Between those moments, he coached her quietly, voice a razor against silk.
She wanted to stab him with her dessert fork.
And yet, she listened. She learned.
*-*-*-*-*
The ride home was silent. Moscow blurred past in streaks of neon and rain. Nadya's pulse was still high; her mind worked faster.
Viktor's guilt. Andrei's gossip. Every whispered thread.
If she played this right, she could pull something real from the web Alexei had spun.
But Alexei Romanov wasn't a man who left openings.
At the mansion, marble gleamed under soft light. Nadya barely made it two steps inside before he caught her wrist, turning her sharply.
Her back hit the wall. His hand braced beside her head.
The world shrank to smoke, cologne, and the sound of her heartbeat.
"Careful what you touch, dorogaya," he murmured, voice low, intimate. "Some things bite."
She looked up through her lashes. "Why? Afraid I'll find something worth keeping?"
His smile was slow. Lethal. "Afraid you won't know what to do with it."
She chuckled. "You underestimate me."
"I hope so," he said—and stepped back.
As he did, her fingers tightened around a small metallic shape.
His gaze flicked to her hand, unreadable, then she waited until he disappeared. Only then did she open it.
A flash.
Not victory. But something.
And something, she thought, tucking it into her clutch, was enough to start a war.