Mikhail sat at the long dining table, his back straight, his chin lifted, and his shoulders held with an effortless poise. Elegance came naturally to him, it was dragged into his bones by bloodline, it became more efficient by upbringing. He wasn't just handsome; he was composed in a way that warned people to keep their distance.
His blond hair caught the chandelier's golden light, giving it a warm gleam, while his dark brown eyes remained cold and watchful. Beneath the tailored black shirt, his physique was muscular and defined, powerful even but not overly built. A glimpse of faint scars marked his chest beneath the fabric, barely noticeable unless one knew where to look;it were the remnants of a life no Dragunov heir escaped untouched.
There was a dangerous edge to him, it was subtle but unmistakable, controlled and elegant, but calculated.
The room around him was suffocatingly pristine. The chandelier cast a soft, honeyed glow over the marble floors, but instead of warmth, it only made the unease threading through the air. The empty seats beside him where his sisters usually sat confirmed what his gut had already told him.
This wasn't family dinner, this was strategy or worse. The staff's moved with military precision, their steps were silent, and there gazes down, not one dared make a mistake. His father only demanded this level of perfection when something or someone of his standard was coming.
Before Mikhail could decipher which monster tonight belonged to, the double doors opened.
It was neither his sisters, nor his friends, not that he had many of them...
Lydia and Dylan Volkov stepped in, wearing the calm arrogance of people who could buy and sell empires without blinking. They were pharmaceutical royalty, a family whose name alone could change markets and end smaller families entirely.
Mikhail's jaw tightened, chyort. His father and mother rose immediately, their smiles polished like barbie dolls it was so artificial it was almost painful.
«Добро пожаловать, дорогие друзья,» Yelena crooned in Russian, switching to English a heartbeat later. "We're honored you made the time."
Lydia returned the smile, equally false, equally sharp. "For your family? Always."
Not once did they acknowledge Mikhail, nor did they look at him. Then movement caught his eye, standing slightly behind the Volkovs was a young woman he hadn't noticed earlier. She stepped forward her blonde hair smooth as silk, blue eyes wide and delicate, her posture was elegant and untouched by nerves. She wore her expensive dress like she'd been born into it with a mix of quiet grace. Her emotionless expression was a mask worthy of a seasoned socialite.
Yelena's smile warmed unnaturally.
«Jennifer, дорогая моя,» she said, voice sweet and sharp, switching to English again. "We're so happy you're here."
"Thank you for having us," Jennifer said with a soft, poised voice.
The four of them fell easily into conversation real conversation, about business, power, Money and influence. They spoke rapidly in Russian, then dipped into English for emphasis or clarity.
«Мы расширяем сеть,» Dylan said, waving a hand dismissively.
"We're acquiring two new labs by the end of the quarter."
«Прекрасно,» Mikhail's father nodded. "Pharmaceutical dominance suits you."
That was when Mikhail felt it the cold, heavy shift in the air. He watched Jennifer, then watched his parents, and the Volkovs, then the pieces slid together like a trap snapping shut.
They weren't speaking to Jennifer nor where they speaking to him. Instead they were speaking about them, like they were assets or pieces on the board. His pulse thudded once, no, no, no, no. He repeated it silently, only the slight flare of his nostrils betrayed him.
He hoped foolishly, desperately that this was just networking, a friendly alliance dinner but the way Yelena glanced between him and Jennifer calculatively and proudly told him everything. This wasn't a dinner, more like an arrangement.
A decision made without him and her, Mikhail Dragunov with his perfect posture and perfect hair and flawless, emotionless expression sat there like a prize waiting to be inspected.
The staff set down the dessert Ptichye Moloko, a delicate square of soufflé-light cream coated in glossy chocolate. The fork's gentle tap against the plate should've been soft, almost pretty, but to Mikhail, it detonated like a gunshot.
Within him the meltdown began. His breaths stayed measured, but his pulse slammed against his throat like it was trying to escape his body. Not her, not this, not another deal made with his future.
He could almost hear his father's voice carved from iron "Your duty comes first, always."
At thirty-five, he had done everything required: the discipline, the training, the ruthlessness. He'd bled, commanded, sacrificed, molded himself into the perfect Dragunov heir.
And still… it wasn't enough. He was still a piece to be traded, moved and positioned.
Then him, the image slammed into him like a punch to the ribs. The man from Chamber XII, his brown curls falling messily across a sharp jaw. Eyes that held something dark dangerous and hungry.
Mikhail had never spoken to him, not once, yet he felt an electric pull. Something like possessiveness, something he shouldn't feel for a stranger. Something he definitely shouldn't feel for a man. But Chamber XII wasn't just any place. It was the only place where Mikhail Dragunov wasn't a prince of the bratva. Where the weight of legacy and where he could shed the armor, the manners, the expectations… even his name.
In those shadowed rooms, bathed in low red light and velvet smoke, he wasn't observed he observed, he chose and he was free.
He remembered the way his breath had stumbled the first time he saw that man lean back against the bar, mouth curved in a sinful half-smirk, like he knew exactly what Mikhail wanted and exactly how he'd take it from him.
And now Mikhail was being traded away like a bottle of aged vodka at a negotiation table.
Rage coiled low in his gut, mixing with something reckless and forbidden.
What would the man from Chamber XII think if he saw him now?
A puppet dressed in silk, His fingers tightened around the dessert fork until his knuckles whitened. Only Yelena's sharp sideways glance made him force his hand to relax. Chairs shifted. Soft murmurs signaled the dinner drawing to a close. Staff began clearing plates with brisk efficiency, and the tension in the room settled into something colder, more deliberate.
Dylan Volkov rose first, buttoning his suit jacket with the confidence of a man who never heard the word no a day in his life. Lydia stood beside him, polished and lethal in equal measure.
Their attention landed on Mikhail. "Mikhail," Dylan said smoothly, "when will you be available to take Jennifer to dinner?"
There it was there was no pretense in his words, the deal had already been signed in their minds.
Every muscle in Mikhail's body stayed perfectly still, his expression unreadable
but inside, something dark and defiant uncoiled, whispering absolutely not.
They all stared at him expectantly. Mikhail lifted his gaze, instead of answering, he pushed back his chair and stood.