Page 63 of His Contract Queen

My father’s face twists as he turns back to look at me—fury like I’ve never seen before pinching his features into someone unrecognizable. The mask of the patriot, the humble servant of the state, completely crumbles. His hands flex at his sides like he wants to wrap them around my throat and squeeze until I pass out.

For the first time in my life, I see real, unfiltered hatred in his eyes.

The screen scrolls to the next slide—names of the bookies and fixers he used to keep the losses quiet and out of the public eye.Another slide shows forged expense reports submitted to the Ministry of Defense, claiming “operational travel” for trips that ended in high-stakes poker rooms. The evidence is laid out so plainly that even the most loyal of his supporters would have to close their eyes to ignore it.

The murmurs swell into a quiet outrage. Someone in the front row stands, then another. Their phones are already out to record.

I smile and turn back to the microphone to go in for the kill. Suddenly, the screen flickers before going completely black.

My stomach drops.

Aleksandr's voice is sharp in my ear.“Fuck. The feed is getting jammed?—”

Panic claws up my throat, but I shove it down just as quickly.

Improvise.

I have to improvise.

My knuckles turn white when I clutch the side of the podium. “Eventually, Ramil Borchin’s gambling debt finally caught up to him. In his final act of treachery, my father decided to settle the debts with his broker by offering me?—”

My father steps forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me into what to the outside would look like a paternal embrace but feels like a vise grip meant to choke me into silence.

“Katerina. My poor girl…” He says it loud enough for the mic to pick it up. “You've been through so much. Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive this interruption. My daughter has been the victim of a terrible ordeal. She’s been manipulated by a knowncriminal named Aleksandr Volkov whom we’ve been trying to apprehend for months. She's not herself. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

The lie explodes around the room. Cameras begin flashing as reporters surge forward from the crowd. I wrench myself free, spinning toward the crowd. “He's lying! The proof is?—”

But my words are drowned out.

The AV system blares suddenly with static and a pre-recorded message about technical difficulties. Hands grab me from behind and pull me backward. Military police, with their uniforms crisp and faces impassive, haul me away.

I twist, kicking out, but there are too many. “Let go of me! He's the one—He sold me off!”

Aleksandr's voice roars in my ear with whatever he’s saying, frantic now. But it's useless. The comms piece is knocked from my ear when one of the security officers drags me into his chest, crushing me into a bruising hold that nearly cuts off my oxygen when he lifts me off my feet. The crowd blurs as I'm dragged behind the curtain, kicking uselessly in the air.

My father is speaking again, his tone the perfect mask of sorrowful regret as he addresses the crowd. “Please, everyone, remain calm. This is exactly why we must remain vigilant against threats. My daughter will get the help she needs to…”

I’m taken out one of the side doors into the bitter night air. Two black SUVs idle behind the building, their engines already humming. They force me into the back and close the door with a finality that makes my heart sink.

I frantically pull at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. A wire cage separates me from the driver’s seat, trapping me in the back with no way out and nowhere left to go.

As the car peels away, I slam my fist against the tinted window, helpless.

I've failed.

Not just the plan, but everything. Aleksandr is exposed now, painted as the villain in Ramil’s twisted narrative.

What’s going to happen to him now?

And worse, what’s going to happen to me?

17

ALEKSANDR

The moment they put their hands on her, something inside me goes absolutely feral.

It isn’t rage alone that propels me forward, it’s instinct. Something older than strategy, older than reason. A honed reflex that recognizes a single, unacceptable truth—that they are taking what ismine.