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When I make my way downstairs, I follow the sound of voices to a formal dining room. Samuil sits at the head of a long table, dressed in a dark suit that fits his powerful body perfectly. He looks up when I enter, and for just a moment, something flashes in his eyes before the mask slides back into place.

But we're not alone.

Gregory, Samuil's son, is already seated at the table, coffee cup in hand. When I enter, he looks between Samuil and me with obvious curiosity. He's younger than I expected, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and sharp features. He's dressed casually in jeans and a button-down shirt, a bit more casual attire than his father.

"Good morning, Princess Anastasia," Gregory says politely, standing as I enter.

"Please, just Ana." I take the seat across from him, accepting the coffee a staff member immediately pours. "And you must be Gregory."

"Guilty." He offers a friendly smile. "I've heard a lot about you."

"All terrible things, I'm sure." I glance at Samuil, who's watching this exchange with an unreadable expression.

"Actually, no." Gregory's smile widens. "Samuil's been surprisingly quiet about the engagement."

I study Gregory carefully, remembering the photograph in Samuil's office. I notice immediately that they look nothing alike. Gregory's features are softer, his build leaner. He must have inherited his looks from his mother. Suddenly, I wonder who his mother is and what happened to her. Did Samuil love her? Is that why he refuses marriage, because he lost the one woman he will ever love?

Breakfast arrives, and conversation shifts toward neutral topics. Business. But whenever the engagement is mentioned, I notice strange tension in the room. Gregory offers congratulations that sound genuine, but there's something in his eyes that doesn't quite match his words.

Determined to regain some control over this situation, I set down my coffee cup and smile brightly. "We should discuss the wedding."

Samuil's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "What about it?"

"Well, as the last royal heir of the Rostova bloodline, I have certain expectations." I keep my tone light and conversational. "The ceremony should reflect both our families' standing. A grand ballroom, obviously. Historic traditions observed. Aristocratic guests from both Russian and American circles."

Gregory shifts in his seat, suddenly very interested in his eggs.

"I'm thinking a ball gown," I continue, warming to the subject. "Something with a cathedral train. And the reception should be a celebration worthy of both Russian and Bratva royalty. At least three hundred guests. Maybe more."

"Ana," Samuil says quietly.

But I'm not finished. "We'll need to coordinate with the Orthodox church for the ceremony. And there's the matter of the dowry presentation, the blessing of the families, and traditional dances. These things take time to arrange properly."

"Anastasia." His voice is firmer now.

"What?" I meet his gaze with false innocence, then purposefully widen my eyes. "Oh, do you not know how to dance?" Before he can answer, I continue. "Not to worry. We can bring in tutors."

Samuil sets down his fork with deliberate care. When he speaks, his voice is flat and final. "There will be no royal spectacle. No ball gown with a cathedral train. No three hundred guests."

"But—"

"The wedding date has already been set." He looks directly at me, and I see something in his eyes that settles uneasily in my gut. "The ceremony will take place next week."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Next week? My father said six weeks."

"Plans change." Samuil's expression doesn't change. "The wedding is next week. That's final."

14

SAMUIL

Iwake Monday morning with two regrets burning in my gut. The first is allowing Princess Anastasia Rostova to move into my estate, even though there wasn't much I could have done without causing a war and breaking my family's sacred oath. The second is kissing her… again, last night.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying yesterday's breakfast where Ana sat across from Gregory planning a royal wedding like she was organizing a coronation. Gregory had grown increasingly uncomfortable with every detail she mentioned, and I'd sat there like a fucking idiot letting it happen because I was too distracted by the memory of her mouth on mine.

This is what happens when discipline breaks. When control slips. One moment of weakness, and suddenly, my entire life is being reorganized by a twenty-five-year-old princess who thinks the world revolves around her.

I shower and dress in a charcoal suit, taking extra time with the routine. Control starts with the small things. Discipline is built in moments like these, when everything else feels like chaos.