Page 17 of Ruins
As I step inside my home, I pause, taking in the inviting golden glow of the interior. The walls, adorned with precious family portraits, paint a picture of warmth, of love, of home.
But it’s all a lie.
A carefully curated illusion meant to hide the truth.
I was born into this world not as a daughter, not as a sister, but as a pawn—another piece in the high-stakes game of power and control. My sole purpose? To marry into a powerful family, to secure alliances that would strengthen the Bratva.
I always knew marriage was inevitable.
But this soon?
To someone I didn’t even like?
And worst of all—to lose Pietro in the process?
Maksim always kept me in the loop—or at least let me believe I had some say. When he wanted me to date Jude, he told me himself, assured me it was just a means to an end. That I was helping the family, that it wastemporary.
This?
This feelsdifferent.
Rushed.
Like a door slamming shut before I even realized I was walking toward it.
There is no love, no passion, nothing between Jude and me except his selfish desires and his relentless hunger for power. He will doanythingto get ahead, to climb higher, and he expects me to be his stepping stone.
That doesn’t bode well for a marriage.
With a heavy heart, I reach my father’s study and knock.
“Come in.” His voice is steady, familiar.
I push open the door to find him sitting behind his desk, a folder in hand. His smile is practiced, polite, but I sense it immediately—something is off.
I close the door behind me, forcing my shoulders back, my expression composed as I lower myself into the chair across from him.
Without a word, he slides the folder across the desk.
“Congratulations, Vasilisa.” His voice carries no warmth, only finality. “Maksim has informed me that he has found you a husband. This will be a powerful alliance for our family, one that you should be proud of.”
I nod stiffly, my fingers curling around the folder.
“I know. Jude mentioned it.”
I open it, bracing myself for what I expect—a contract, a marriage certificate, a one-way ticket toSeattle.
Instead—
I’m greeted by a photograph.
A man.
Handsome. Sharp features. Dark hair. Dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
He doesn’t look like a politician.
Doesn’t look like aJude.
