The midday heat of the Vulkoff estate did nothing to cool the chill that had settled into Alina’s chest. For two years, she had been a ghost in the machine—silent, compliant, invisible. But the casual strength of Damon Vulkoff’s grip on her wrist had broken the spell. That afternoon, scrubbing the heavy oak tables in the secondary pantry, her mind kept looping back to his office. He hadn't just saved his papers; he had felt her pulse. She knew he had. His fingers had lingered over her radial artery just long enough to register the frantic, terrified spike of her heartbeat.

The morning sun brought no peace to the Vulkoff estate; it brought war.

Alina woke up before dawn, sliding quietly out of Damon’s bed and slipping back into her room before the guards started their morning patrol. She dressed in her crisp black-and-white uniform, pinning her hair back tight, trying desperately to look like the invisible maid she had pretended to be just twenty-four hours earlier.

But everything had changed. When she walked into the main kitchen at 6:00 AM, Sloan took one look at her flushed face, the slight swelling of her lips, and the way she moved with new, unshakeable confidence, and stopped stirring the pot.

"You didn't sleep in your room last night," Sloan stated flatly, lowering the heat on the stove.

"Sloan—"

"Don't Sloan me, princess," the older woman hissed, stepping close and grabbing Alina by the forearm. "Are you out of your mind? Damon Vulkoff isn't a man you play with. If he gets tired of you, he doesn't just fire you. Men like him break things and throw them in the river."

"He didn't break me," Alina said quietly, meeting Sloan’s worried eyes with a calm, steady gaze.

Before Sloan could reply, the heavy iron security gates at the front of the estate let out a jarring, automated screech. The kitchen's internal security monitor—rigged to the front entrance cameras—flickered to life.

On the grainy screen, three black SUV's rolled past the guard post, their headlights cutting through the morning fog. Out of the lead vehicle stepped Yuri Petrov—the ruthless boss of the rival Bratva syndicate, flanked by four armed enforcers.

Sloan’s face drained of color. "Petrov. He hasn't stepped foot in this territory in three years."

Alina’s stomach plummeted. She knew the name. Petrov was the man responsible for the brutal war that had claimed the life of Damon’s sister two years ago—the very tragedy that haunted the Vulkoff study.