Page 73 of The King's Pawn
The same arrogance.
Exactly like I suspected.
The trail is so blatant, it borders on insulting, which makes me wonder if it’s meant to be seen. Viktor has always fancied himself clever enough to dance in the open while everyone else pretends not to notice. But this is different. This isn’t calculated confidence. It’s recklessness masquerading as boldness.
That unsettles me more than if he’d actually been careful.
If Viktor orchestrated the explosion to manufacture sympathy and rally his constituents around him like frightened animals huddling for warmth, why risk doing it where his own daughter was present? Why allow her anywhere near the blast radius? For a man who prides himself on control and shaping every narrative and outcome to his benefit, Viktor is becoming sloppy.
No.
Sloppy implies carelessness.
This is worse.
This is stupidity driven by desperation, the most dangerous combination of all.
It should give me satisfaction watching the noose tighten around his neck, witnessing a man who once thought himself untouchable finally overplay his hand. That is how it has always worked when my enemies grow desperate. I let them make mistakes and step in only when the outcome is inevitable.
But there is no satisfaction in this, only a hollow ache that settles behind my ribs and refuses to ease, a dread that feels too much like inevitability. I’ve seen this pattern before. Men who are cornered do not suddenly grow cautious. They burn everything around them in the hope that anything will save them.
Unless Viktor never intended for Alina to survive at all.
The thought slides into place with sickening ease. Sacrifice has never been foreign to him. He’s already proved that once. Offering his wife up to preserve his ascent… what would one more body matter if it bought him forgiveness, power, and absolution in the public eye again? A grieving father makes for a compelling story. A martyr’s loss turns failing politicians human again.
My jaw tightens.
Alina would have been the perfect offering.
But then there is the other half of the equation. The part that doesn’t quite fit. Viktor knew she was promised to me. He knew exactly whose territory she would be under when he set off that first bomb. To let her die in that blast would not just be a gamble with public sympathy. It would be a direct provocation against me. It would be a challenge, aninsult, a declaration that he believed himself clever enough to get away with it.
Or worse, that I wouldn’t care enough to look too closely.
My fingers curl against the edge of the desk.
Viktor is many things—cowardly, greedy, self-serving—but he has never been foolish enough to mistake my restraint for weakness. Not until now, which means either desperation has finally rotted his judgment beyond repair…
Or this was never meant to be subtle at all.
Neither option sits well.
Whatever Viktor started, he did not think through the consequences. Or if he did, he decided they were worth angeringme. That leaves me standing in the middle of it all with Alina under my roof and a war quietly tightening around us all.
It doesn’t feel good.
The door opens without knocking.
Only one person in this house gets away with that.
My sister steps inside like she owns the place. Which, in a way, she does. Her heels whisper across the floor as she crosses it, the sound cutting through the tense quiet of my study. She doesn’t bother asking permission before dropping a thick file onto my desk.
“So,” she starts.
I don’t look up.
I already know exactly why she’s here. I’ve known since the moment I woke up this morning with guilt still clinging to my skin and the house buzzing with that particular kind of energy that follows a scandal before it’s spoken aloud. It’s the same reason she showed up weeks ago when Alina first arrived and the same reason she’s back now—to poke at the hairline crack until it either fuses or splits wide open.
“Don’t,” I say flatly.
