Page 53 of Blood Oath Christmas
Two men, younger than in the other photos, standing side by side in front of a Christmas tree. One is unmistakably Konstantin—the same green eyes, the same strong jaw, though his face is softer, unmarked by the years of responsibility and violence that have shaped him into the man I married. He can't be more than twenty-five in the photo, his arm slung casually around the shoulders of the man beside him.
The other man has blond hair and blue eyes, an easy smile that I recognize even though I haven't seen it in over ten years.
The box slips from my nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor as I collapse into Konstantin's chair. The photograph flutters down after it, landing face-up on the Persian rug. Even from this distance, even through the shock that's making my vision blur at the edges, I can see it clearly.
My father.
28
KONSTANTIN
The vibration of my phone against my chest pulls me from my conversation with Sergei about the new wine shipment. I glance at the screen and curse under my breath when I see Viktor's name.
She's locked herself in your office. Won't come out.
My jaw clenches as I read the message twice, my mind immediately racing through possibilities. Something has upset her, and given that she's specifically chosen my office as her sanctuary, I have a sinking feeling I know what it might be.
"Sergei, we'll finish this tomorrow," I say, cutting off the vendor mid-sentence about vintage years and profit margins. "Something's come up."
He nods, understanding the tone that means business is over. I've built my reputation on being a man who handles his priorities, and right now, my wife is at the top of that list.
The drive back to the estate feels longer than usual, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I run through scenarios in my head. What could have driven her to seek refuge in my office? The space is sacred to me—it's where I conduct the family's mostsensitive business, where I keep things that aren't meant for curious eyes.
Things like the box in my desk drawer.
Blyad.
I press harder on the accelerator, weaving through traffic with the kind of precision that comes from years of high-stakes driving. If she's found what I think she's found, this conversation is going to be more complicated than I'd hoped. I've been putting off telling her about Andrei, about the blood oath, about how long I've been watching over her from the shadows. Every day that passes makes the truth harder to reveal, and now it seems the choice has been taken from me.
The estate comes into view, its imposing silhouette against the winter sky both welcoming and foreboding. I park with more force than necessary, gravel spraying under my tires as I come to a stop. Viktor meets me at the front door, his expression grim.
"How long?" I ask without preamble.
"Two hours. Anya tried to bring her tea, but she won't unlock the door. Just keeps saying she needs time to think."
I nod, already moving toward the stairs. "Make sure we're not disturbed."
"Boss," Viktor calls after me, and I pause. "Whatever she found… she was crying when she went in there."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Ivy doesn't cry easily—I've learned that much about my wife in the short time we've been married. She's strong, resilient, the kind of woman who faces challenges head-on rather than retreating into tears. If she's crying, then whatever she's discovered has shaken her to her core.
I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps echoing in the hallway as I approach my office. The door is indeed locked, and I can hear nothing from the other side. For a moment, I considerusing my key, but something stops me. She's chosen to lock herself away, and barging in will only make things worse.
Instead, I knock gently. "Ivy? It's me."
Silence.
"Ivy, I know you're in there. We need to talk."
More silence, then the soft sound of footsteps on carpet. The lock clicks, and the door opens just wide enough for me to see her face. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, and there's something in her expression that makes my chest tighten—a mixture of hurt and confusion that cuts deeper than any blade.
"Come in," she says quietly, stepping back to let me enter.
My office looks exactly as I left it this morning, with one glaring exception. The wooden box that usually sits locked in my desk drawer is now open on the desktop, its contents scattered across the polished surface. Photographs, documents, newspaper clippings—all the pieces of a puzzle that Ivy was never supposed to see, at least not like this.
She's holding one particular photograph, and I know without looking which one it is. The picture of Andrei and me at Baratino, taken just months before the night that changed everything. We're both younger, both smiling, both blissfully unaware of the tragedy that would soon tear our worlds apart.
"Explain this," she says, her voice steady despite the tears that threaten to spill over. "Explain why you have a picture of my father in your desk."
