Page 30 of Shattered Crown

My earlier words come back to haunt me. That was before I knew what she smells like, how she likes her pancakes smothered in jam, how she cries out in her sleep and can only be soothed by pressing her body to mine.

When I don’t respond, Pavel takes the seat across from me. “No woman will ever have power over you again.”

“I know that.” His words make me itchy under my collar. I'll never let a woman mean anything to me—that's a straight-up fact. “What exactly is your point?”

Pavel’s expression is unreadable as he crosses one leg over the other. Few can address me as he does, but Pavel isn't just anyone—he's my oldest friend. We both cut our teeth in the same gritty boxing gym, a place of refuge from the brutal streets. Pavel cleaned the place in exchange for training and a handful of rubles. While I had some family, Pavel was orphaned at twelve. He was thrust into adulthood prematurely, hustling on the streets to provide for his younger sister. Her disappearance—a void that swallowed his hopes—brought us together. I helped him search through the darkest corners of the city. We never did find her alive.

And when Ilya was taken from me, Pavel was one of the few who understood my anguish. He kept me going during my darkest days.

Our grief is a bond that goes deeper than blood.

“My point is that a woman will never have power over you like that again. Once Kira serves her purpose, you can send her back to her brothers or whatever it is you plan to do once the war with the Black Company is behind us.”

“You’re forgetting that Kira is my only connection to Alyona.”

“Lots of good that’s doing you. Have you spoken with Alyona once since getting married?”

“And say what? 'So sorry I threatened to kill everyone you love. I was prepared to coerce you into doing what I want but … what, had a crisis of conscience?' I’m not sure she's ready to hear from me.”

“I’m no expert,” Pavel says, lifting his arms in the air. “But 'sorry' is always a good start.”

Sorry is not part of my vocabulary but if given the chance, I would apologize to Alyona because she deserves it.

Discovering Alyona was my daughter years after losing Ilya was like a little piece of me coming back to life. Alyona shares the same eyes as Ilya—a striking shade of blue—and the same dark thick hair. Looking at her reminds me of what I’d lost and found again.

Alyona was in her teens when I discovered she’s my daughter. I had to wait eight years before I could reach out and tell her I was her biological father because of a deal I’d made with her mother. She made me promise I wouldn’t disrupt Alyona’s life until she turned twenty-five. Maybe it was because I had to wait so long, but when I could finally contact her, I was impatient. I wanted her safe and in my world, ASAP.

But my impatience blew up in my face. And now, I’m paying the price.

“She’s not ready to hear from me yet,” I grumble, rubbing the back of my neck, exhaustion pulling at me after a lifetime of not enough sleep. I stand, indicating that this conversation is done. “Let’s get this over with.”

“There is no ‘us’ in this. It’s all you,” Pavel adds with glee.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” I straighten my tie.

“Actually, I thought I’d tag along for the lovey-dovey newlyweds’ shoot?—”

My glare cuts him short.

“So that’s a no then?”

"That's a fuck no.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MAXIM

I'm immediately assaultedby the chaos. Bright lights, a busy photography team, and elaborate floral displays fill the grand hall. It feels more like a film set than my own home.

Society Magazinespared no expense for this feature, and it’s not a mystery why. Everyone wants to know more about the woman who sank her talons into Russia’s most eligible billionaire, the man no one believed would settle down again. Not that the details of how my marriage to Irina ended were ever made public, but rumors have a way of spreading like a virus. Being featured in aSocietyspread is my idea of hell. I’m a private man, and even though this is all bullshit, I despise having to play a part.

Nadya has briefed Kira on what’s expected of her, but I can't help but wonder how today will play out. When I catch sight of her across the room, my focus narrows; the noise, the lights, the people—they all blur into the background. All I can see is her.

Kira’s hair, usually a wild cascade, is tamed into gentle waves that rest on her shoulders. She’s dressed in a classic pink Chanelsuit, the color complementing her peach and cream complexion. Like her subtle makeup, it downplays how damn young she is, which I suppose was Nadya’s instruction to the stylist and hair-and-makeup team who put her together today. She looks perfect, comfortable and composed as if this bustling scene around her is an everyday occurrence.

Kira laughs at a comment from Maria Tokarev, a well-known entertainment journalist. She’s an elegant woman in her forties and one of the few in the industry I trust to not fuck this up.

Taking a deep breath, I cut through the room, a smile held tightly on my face. I may not like to play the game, but I’m certainly good at it. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

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