The registry hall smelled of polished marble and quiet strength. Gold-veined pillars stretched toward a ceiling painted with victories that no longer belonged to Maria Romanova's family. Each emblem scrubbed clean after the betrayal, after the fall, after the world had decided she was expendable.
And yet here she stood at the center, spine straight, hands clasped in front of her, dressed in white that felt more like surrender than purity. Across the hall, he waited.
Mikhail Dragun.
Cold was not enough to describe him. Black tailored to perfection, shoulders rigid, presence sharp enough to cut through marble. He didn't move; the room itself seemed to lean into his control.
Maria's heartbeat thudded. Consent.
A word she had said too many times to people who no longer deserved it.
"Yes," she said aloud.
The registrar's pen scratched against paper, finality settling into the air.
Mikhail didn't blink. "I do," he said, calm. Absolute. Certain.
And just like that, her freedom was auctioned to a man who measured life in commands.
The room emptied with careful efficiency. Servants bowed. Guards realigned. Only the couple remained.
He did not touch her.
"Your rooms have been prepared," he said finally. Voice smooth, detached. Command disguised as courtesy.
"My rooms?" Maria echoed, swallowing bile.
"Yes. Separate."
Her chest tightened. Relief or insult? She couldn't tell.
"This is how it begins," she said softly. "A marriage without even the illusion of closeness."
"You misunderstand," Mikhail said, stepping closer—not invading, but claiming space. "This marriage is about control. Not closeness."
Her chin lifted, defiance sparking like embers. "And you think you control me?"
"I already do," he replied, eyes cold as glacier ice.
He handed her a slim folder. "Your inheritance has been unfrozen. Remaining assets protected. Your family name no longer dragged through courts."
Maria opened it, hands shaking. Everything she had lost, returned. Bought.
"And at what cost?" she asked.
"You," he said flatly.
Silence fell, thick as snow.
"You will live here," he continued. "Follow my protocols. Speak to no one. Appearances by permission."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't."
The truth of it pressed against her ribs. Absolute, inescapable.
Yet beneath the cold, beneath the suffocating weight, a spark ignited. Not fear. Fire.
"You think because you own my name," she whispered, "that you own me."
"I think," he replied, stepping back into his distance, "that you will learn the difference between defiance and survival."
He turned. "This is not a love story, Maria Romanova. Do not mistake it for one."
The door closed.
Maria's reflection in the marble stared back at her, crowned by nothing, claimed by everything.
Her marriage had begun.
And deep inside…
a firestorm stirred.