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The women are gathered in small clusters when I walk in, discussing foundation work and upcoming charity events. Several acknowledge me with brief nods before returning to their conversations. Others barely glance in my direction. I take a seat near the center of the room, waiting for someone to engage me in conversation. No one does.

The hostess is discussing a fundraiser for a children's hospital. She's in her early fifties, impeccably dressed in a burgundy suit, with the kind of presence that comes from decades of navigating this world. "We've secured commitments from three major donors," she says. "But we need at least five more to reach our goal."

"I can reach out to the Kozlov family," another woman offers. "They've been generous in the past."

"Excellent." She makes a note on the tablet in front of her.

I clear my throat. "The Rostova Foundation could contribute as well. We have funds allocated specifically for medical initiatives."

The hostess glances at me briefly. "That's kind of you, Princess Anastasia. We'll keep that in mind."

Then she turns back to the other woman and continues the conversation as though I never spoke.

Heat rises to my cheeks. I've just been dismissed. Smoothly, politely, but dismissed, nonetheless. I knew to expect it, but it still burns. And actually, it pisses me off a little. But I don't say anything because my father would get upset. All of these women are powerful. They're either royalty themselves or married to powerful Bratva leaders.

The meeting continues for another hour. I try to participate several more times, offering suggestions and opinions. Each time, I'm met with the same response. Polite acknowledgment followed by immediate redirection of the conversation.

These women have built real influence through marriages, strategic alliances, carefully cultivated relationships, and decades of political maneuvering. They control foundations, manage investments, and broker deals between families. They've earned their positions through work and sacrifice. And I'm just the princess who was born into the right bloodline.

By the time the meeting ends, I'm furious. I leave the estate with my head held high, but inside ,I'm seething. The drive home takes thirty minutes, and I spend every second of it replaying the meeting in my head. By the time I walk through the front door of the Rostova estate, I've made up my mind about everything. Samuil Galkin may be attractive and the kiss may have been incredible, but a ready-made family is not what I want. I need to focus on building my own influence, earning my own respect, and proving that I'm more than just a pretty face with a royal title.

I head upstairs to change out of the navy dress, pulling on comfortable black leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater. My father isn't home yet since he had meetings in the city all day and probably won't return until evening.

I'm in the sitting room reading when I hear his car pull into the driveway around nine. He walks in a few minutes later looking unusually pleased with himself, which immediately puts me on edge. My father only looks that satisfied when he's closed a major deal or outmaneuvered a rival.

"Good evening, Ana." He pours himself a scotch from the bar cart, then settles into his favorite leather chair across from me.

"Evening, Papa." I set down my book and study his expression. "You look happy."

"I am." He takes a sip of his drink, his smile widening. "I have good news."

Something about his tone makes my stomach drop. "What kind of good news?"

He leans back in his chair, completely relaxed, like he's about to tell me he bought a new car or closed a profitable business deal. "You're officially engaged to Pakhan Samuil Galkin."

8

SAMUIL

Iwake Friday morning with the taste of regret in my mouth. The engagement contract sits in my office safe, signed and sealed, binding me to a future I don't fucking want. One impulsive moment. One fucking kiss. And now I'm trapped in an arrangement that goes against every cell in my body.

Sure, I could have said no, but that would have been a disaster. You don't say no to the royal family, at least not if you don't want a lot of trouble following you. Arranged marriages just aren't done anymore and haven't been for generations. But here I am, caught in one.

It really pisses me off that the princess is getting her way. She managed to snare the Pakhan who didn't want her and who never wanted to marry and have a family. I bet she's sitting over in her mansion just pleased as all shit, bragging to anyone who will listen that she captured me.

Yanking open my walk-in closet's double doors, I grab the first decent set of clothes I can find, a charcoal suit, white shirt, but no tie, and lay it out on the bed. I stand there for a moment, arms at my sides and hands balled into fists. I can't fucking believe the mess I got myself into.

I shower and dress and then stare at my reflection. "How could you be so fucking stupid?" I growl at myself.

Any other woman could have entered my office uninvited. Any other woman could have kissed me behind closed doors without the Bratva giving a shit. But Ana isn't just any woman. She's the last surviving heir of Russian royal blood, a princess whose reputation carries political significance, financial weight, and historical importance across every major family in America and Russia.

Protocol alone should have warned me away. The deep history between our families should have been enough. But I allowed myself to be distracted by a beautiful face and a sharp tongue, and now I'm paying the price.

I pour coffee in the kitchen, black and bitter, and stare out the window at the city skyline. The sun rises over buildings I own, businesses I control, and territory I govern. It wasn't easy getting and maintaining my business. A lot of blood has been spilled, too many deaths at my hands to count. Yet one spoiled princess has managed to trap me into marriage.

By mid-morning, I'm at my desk reviewing shipment schedules when I realize I need to handle something before dealing with the Rostovas tonight. I pick up my phone and send a text to Gregory to come meet me.

His response comes immediately. On my way.