Winter in Moscow was not gentle.
It swallowed sound. It muted color. It made everything white and distant.
Aansi stood near the balcony doors of the Voss estate, watching snow cover the iron gates.
She still wasn't used to it.
Back in India, winter had sunlight.
Here, winter had silence.
Behind her—
Zaid adjusted his coat.
"You'll freeze if you stand that close to the glass."
"I'm just looking."
"At what?"
"At how cold your country is."
A pause.
"Russia is not cold," he replied calmly. "It's selective."
She turned. "Like you?"
His jaw shifted slightly.
Before he could respond, his phone buzzed.
He checked it. His expression changed — controlled, but sharper.
"We're attending the Petrova charity gala tonight."
"I wasn't informed."
"You are now."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because," he said evenly, "my father will be there."
Ah.
So this was strategy.
The Gala
Crystal chandeliers.
Elite families.
Old Russian power.
Leonid was watching.
Always watching.
Zaid noticed it before Aansi did.
So when a woman from the board approached them and smiled politely—
"Mr. Voss, rumors are spreading," she said smoothly. "Some say the marriage is… distant."
Aansi felt it.
That word.
Zaid's hand moved to her waist.
Not aggressive.
Not possessive.
Measured.
He looked down at her.
Something shifted in his eyes.
"Distant?" he repeated softly.
Then—
He leaned down.
And kissed her.
Slow. Rough. Deep. Deliberate.
Just enough to silence a room.
Aansi froze for half a second.
Then instinct kicked in.
Her fingers rose to his collar.
As if natural.
As if they did this often.
The room turned away politely.
Rumors dissolved instantly.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost brushed hers.
His voice low.
"Breathe," he murmured so only she could hear.
She was.
Barely.
"That wasn't part of the contract," she whispered.
"No," he replied calmly. "It was part of survival."
But his thumb hadn't left her waist, it slowly grabbed her ass and kissed her again.
And her fingers hadn't left his collar, they were around his neck.
Snow falling. Music inside muted.
She stepped out to cool her racing pulse.
He followed.
"You didn't warn me," she said quietly.
"If I warned you, it wouldn't look real."
"It looked very real."
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips.
Then back to her eyes.
"It was controlled."
"Your control slipped."
A slight smirk.
"It didn't."
She stepped closer without realizing it.
"Your father was watching," she said.
"I know."
"And?"
"And he won't question our marriage again."
Silence.
The snowflakes caught in her hair.
Without thinking—
He reached up.
Brushed one away.
Slow.
Careful.
She stilled.
"You're touching me," she said softly.
"I am."
"You said—"
"I said I wouldn't touch you yet."
A beat.
"Yet."
There it was.
Her breath faltered slightly.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"I didn't intend to kiss you," he said quietly.
"Then why did you?"
His eyes darkened — not angry.
Something else.
"Because for a second," he admitted, voice lower, "I didn't want it to be fake."
That surprised her.
He never admitted anything.
The honesty surprised him too.
He straightened slightly.
"That changes nothing."
She searched his face.
"Then why does it feel like it did?"
For the first time—
He didn't answer immediately.
Snow fell between them.
Russia was cold.
But the space between them wasn't.