Page 45 of His Contract Queen

She has no idea how deeply she’s rooted herself inside me. She’s taken up permanent residence in places I never knew existed until she forced the doors open to places I kept locked even from myself. Soft places, vulnerable places my father tried his best to beat out of me before I was old enough to fight back. I refuse to cull the growth now forming just because she thinks leaving is an option.

When I don’t say anything, she speaks again. “Whatever is left of his estate after I liquidate enough of it to keep me comfortable, you can have. Every account, every property, every shell company under his name…” She shrugs. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. Consider it my bargaining chip to sweeten the deal. All I ask is that you let me keep the house.”

I should laugh.

The sound rises in my throat, tempting me.

I don’t need anything financially from Ramil Borchin or his rotting trust. I don’t want it. My accounts are bloated with more money than I know what to do with. Taking his scraps would belike a wolf scavenging a dead carcass on the side of the road for fresh meat.

Aside from that, the idea of stripping her inheritance after everything he already took from her feels like another violation. She’s earned every brick of that house, every acre of land on that property, and every dollar in those bank accounts. She’s paid for it tenfold simply by living under her father’s influence for so long.

If I took any of it, I’d be no better than the man who sold her.

I ask the one question that has been burning a hole in my mind. “Why go through the trouble of something this wide-scale? Why not let him rot on his own? Walk away. Wipe your hands clean of the mess. Seems counterintuitive if your goal is to move on.”

Her hands fold together in her lap, fingers lacing one-by-one. She considers the question for a long moment.

“Maybe so,” she says at last. “But I’m tired of him getting away with being a horrible person in the shadows. He needs to be held accountable in a way he can’t bargain his way out of.”

I hum in response.

It comes as no surprise that a private reckoning would not solve the kind of ache she has in her heart. I’ve seen enough betrayal in my life to know that quiet vengeance rarely satisfies a wound as deep as hers. Anything less than complete public annihilation would be too easy of a judgement cast upon Borchin.

She wants him dead in every way that has ever mattered to a man like him.

This isn’t a grieving daughter lashing out to get even. This is a strategist who understands power and reputation and how vitalit is to dismantle both if you truly want to bury an enemy for good. In that moment, I understand something I haven’t before now.

Whatever her father thought he was creating by breaking her, he failed spectacularly. Instead, he’s honed the weapon that will ultimately be used to destroy him.

I find myself smiling before I consciously realize. It starts as nothing more than a faint curve at one corner of my mouth. But soon it spreads until it’s the full, dark smile that has made more grown men reconsider their life choices than I can count.

Her eyes narrow slightly at me, wary. Underneath it is a flicker of something else there too.

Anticipation.

“Alright. I’ll help you,” I say at last.

For the first since the day she walked into my life, she smiles at me. It is radiant. “Good. Let’s get started.”

Teachingher becomes the easiest decision I’ve made all week.

I expected, at the very least, a flicker of disgust when I finally decide to open the doors to my world and let her see what truly lives beneath the polished veneer that is presented to outsiders from those of us in power.

The illusion of order the Pact so carefully cultivates has always been meant to project stability. To reassure the world that civilized men with impeccable pedigrees and diplomaticinfluence are the ones in control. In truth, behind that manicured façade is the exact opposite.

To my surprise, Katerina doesn’t recoil once her eyes have been opened. Instead, she leans in closer to absorb it all.

She meets every new revelation with laser-focused attention, her questions pulling her deeper into the underbelly of how proper power is wielded in Russia. She follows every thread I give her, tugging at it until it unravels into the full picture and shows exactly what corruption, alliances, and machinery of influence it takes to keep everything running smoothly.

Not once does she flinch or shy away from the ugliness that is this country’s true reality. If anything, she seems relieved at being taken seriously and treated as an equal rather than a pawn for those above her to play with at their leisure.

Over the next week, we turn my office into a war room.

The long mahogany desk is dragged into the center of the room and buried under ledgers, timelines, and financial trails that span with decades of unchecked addiction and desperation laid open like an autopsy. Papers cover every surface of it. Maps and printouts line the walls behind us. The fireplace burns late into the night as our strategies are drafted until they’re perfect.

I show her everything she will need to completely destroy her father.

Brute force—bullets, beatings, broken bones—is what amateurs reach for when they lack imagination. Violence leaves bodies behind like breadcrumbs and invites headlines, investigations, and unwanted scrutiny in places we don’t need. Any fool with a temper can spill blood. It takes someone with far more discipline to ruin a man without ever touching him directly.