Page 56 of The King's Pawn
That, more than anything, tells me this meeting was never meant to be collaborative. This is not a discussion. It’s a confrontation.
I clear my throat, forcing myself back into equilibrium before speaking. “Nothing is confirmed.”
The words are measured and deliberately neutral. They are also true, at least in the strictest sense of the word.
Nikolai’s eyes snap to mine immediately. There it is—the fire. Sharp, bright, and unmistakable. He’s finally shifted to feeling displeased.
“Really?” he says.
The single word is a blade.
It isn’t curiosity or skepticism. It is a direct challenge issued without ceremony. His way of daring me to lie not just to the table, but to his face directly. To see whether I will flinch or bend and cave instead to choose our allegiance over self-preservation when forced into a corner.
The room seems to contract around us.
Volkov shifts in his seat, a faint smile tugging at his mouth while he’s enjoying the show. Kuznetsov goes still, watching us both with the careful attention of a man who knows when to keep his mouth shut.
I hold Nikolai’s gaze.
Since the night Alina arrived at my estate, our disagreement over her presence has never been addressed directly between us again. Everything since has come through side channels, comments delivered by seconds and warnings disguised as advice, pressure applied subtly enough to allow plausible deniability if I were to ever openly question him on it.
This is different. This is Nikolai stepping out from behind the curtain and forcing the issue into the open.
I speak evenly, refusing to rise to his provocation. “Really. Suspicion is not proof, no matter how tempting it is to want to lay blame on someone’s shoulders. Morozov is not the only man with motive to enact a terroristic threat, nor the only one reckless enough to try and manufacture sympathy through violence.”
Nikolai studies me in silence, his expression unreadable.
I don’t know yet whether he believes me. What I do know, and what settles into my bones with an uncomfortable certainty, is that belief is no longer the point.
Nikolai Malyshko has already decided Viktor Morozov’s guilt in his own mind.
That is the real problem.
I have no confirmation that Viktor set off the first bomb, let alone the second. No recordings, no paper trail pointingthe finger directly at him with unshakable certainty. My theories about his motivations—his slipping approval ratings, his desperation to remain relevant, his need to manufacture tragedy into political capital—are just that.Theories. Educated ones, perhaps, but still speculation.
Even his delivering Alina to my estate cannot be used as evidence, not in any way that would stand up to scrutiny within the Pact. Plausible deniability is Viktor’s greatest talent, a politician’s shield honed to perfection. Wanting to protect his only child after a bombing at her university is not suspicious on the surface. It is expected. Admirable, even. If anything, it paints him as a devoted father acting out of fear and love.
Only three people know the real truth. Viktor, Alina, and me.
Only we know that she had been promised to me long before any explosion tore through her university. That the bomb didn’t create the deal. It merely accelerated it, forcing Viktor’s hand far sooner than he would have preferred.
Alina was always going to be handed over to me eventually.
I made sure of that.
The night we met at that gala still sits sharply in my memory. Chandeliers glittering overhead, orchestral music swelling just loud enough to disguise whispered negotiations, politicians and criminals mingling freely under the illusion of civility. Viktor had paraded her at his side like an accessory, too young, too unguarded, smiling politely while men twice her age evaluated her like livestock.
I remember the way my attention had snagged on her without permission when she’d approached me. The way something uglyand protective twisted low in my gut when I realized exactly what her father was doing once he dragged her away again.
Selling her, shopping her to anyone with enough power and enough money and influence to make his problems disappear.
I approached Viktor that same night.
The conversation was short. The contract was finalized not long after, etched into permanence with signatures and favors and blood-deep obligations. She was officially promised to me. Not immediately, and not publicly. But exclusively.
In doing so, I had effectively removed her from the open market, protected what little dignity she had left in a world that would have devoured her whole otherwise. No one else would get their hands on her. No one else would tear her apart, piece by piece, for their amusement or ambition because they wanted exactly what they paid for.
At least, that was the justification I told myself at the time.
