Page 84 of His Stolen Bride

I nod. “I can do that.”

“And you remember,” he adds, eyes locked on mine, “that you’re not.”

I take one step back. Then another.

I don’t let myself look at him again until I reach the door.

When I do, he’s watching me the way a man watches a horizon he’s already preparing to cross.

I turn and leave.

The car is already waiting. Black. Clean. Anonymous. The driver doesn’t speak. I sit upright, hands folded in my lap, breathing slowly through my nose. The capsule sits warm and solid near my throat, lodged where no one will look unless they plan to cut. It presses faintly when I swallow. I welcome the reminder.

We leave the estate through the east gate, not fast, not slow. Everything about this is meant to look resigned. A woman delivered. A debt collected.

Vienna slides past the window in clean lines and old stone. Districts blur into each other as we cross invisible borders that still matter to men like Vladimir. Streets where money moves quietly. Cafés where deals are made with smiles and no witnesses. Buildings that once belonged to empires and now belong to syndicates pretending they’re legitimate.

The car turns toward the river.

Vladimir’s location is clever. A renovated property near the water, technically commercial, privately owned through layered holdings that touch Cyprus, Odessa, and a bank in northern Italy that likes its paperwork vague. He wants legitimacy close and escape closer.

The driver pulls in and parks. Two men approach immediately. Both armed. Both bored. One checks the car. The other checks me. His eyes linger longer than necessary. He does not touch my throat. He pats my coat, my sides, my hips, my legs. He misses what he cannot feel.

“You’re clear,” he says, already disappointed.

I step out. The building smells like polish and money. The lobby is empty except for a woman at a desk who does not look up. Cameras are visible. I count three without trying. Vladimir wants this recorded. He wants proof.

I am led through a corridor and into a private room that overlooks the river. Floor to ceiling windows. Heavy furniture. Flags mounted on one wall, old ones, regional ones, chosen to imply history. Vladimir stands near the window with a glass in his hand. He turns when I enter and smiles slowly.

“There you are,” he says. “I was starting to think you’d lost your nerve.”

“I didn’t,” I reply.

He looks me over without shame. Head to toe. Slow. Ownership in his eyes, already assumed. “You’ve changed,” he says. “Not for the better. Stress ages women.”

“I’ve been busy,” I say.

He laughs and gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

I sit.

He does not. He circles instead, stopping too close, breathing me in like he expects something familiar. “You look tired,” he says. “That suits you. I prefer women when they stop fighting.”

I keep my gaze lowered. “I didn’t come to fight.”

“No,” he agrees. “You came because you finally understood.”

He returns to his chair and sits, spreading himself comfortably. “Your father understood eventually too. Pity he waited so long.”

My fingers tighten together once. I let him see it.

“Let’s talk about him,” Vladimir continues. “Yuri Morozov. A careful man. A stupid one. Those two traits don’t mix well in our world.”

“He was desperate,” I say.

“He was ambitious,” Vladimir corrects. “Desperation is honest. Ambition lies. He wanted security without allegiance. That’s not how things work.”

“You promised protection,” I say.