Ashley's POV:
The car was a silent, velvet-lined capsule moving through the city. Outside, the world blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of Roman—sandalwood, rain, and that metallic edge of danger that never quite washed off.
His hand rested on my thigh, warm and heavy against the midnight-blue silk. It wasn't just a touch; it was an anchor. Every few seconds, his thumb would brush back and forth, a subconscious rhythm that kept me tethered to him as my nerves fluttered like trapped birds.
"You're trembling," he murmured, not looking at me. He was watching the city slide by, his profile cut from granite and moonlight.
"I've never done this," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm used to college parties and dive bars, Roman. Not… this."
He turned then, his gray eyes catching the passing streetlights. They burned with a possessive pride that made my breath hitch.
"That is why you are perfect," he said. "You are not one of them. You are not plastic smiles and hidden daggers. You are real. And tonight, you are the only thing in that room that matters."
He leaned in, his knuckles grazing my cheek. "Remember what I told you, Solnyshko. You are my weapon. When we walk through those doors, you do not look down. You look at them. You let them see who you belong to."
The car slowed, turning into a sweeping driveway lined with paparazzi and security guards who looked more like soldiers. A massive estate loomed ahead, bathed in golden light, looking like a fortress disguised as a palace.
My stomach dropped. "Roman…"
"Breathe," he commanded softly. "I have you."
The driver opened the door, and the noise of the night rushed in—cameras clicking, low murmurs, the distant hum of a string quartet. Roman stepped out first, buttoning his jacket, looking every inch the king of the underworld he was.
He turned and offered his hand.
I stared at it for a split second—the hand that had hurt me, the hand that had healed me, the hand that had signed checks to save my family.
I took it.
As I stepped out, the cool night air hit my skin, but Roman pulled me instantly into his side. His arm wrapped around my waist, creating a barrier between me and the world.
We walked toward the entrance. Heads turned. Conversations died. I could feel the weight of a hundred stares, heavy and judging.
"Chin up," Roman whispered against my ear, his voice a vibration in my spine. "Let them envy you. Let them fear me."
I straightened my spine, channeling the defiance that had kept me alive in his basement. I wasn't just Ashley Bennett anymore. I was the woman standing beside Roman Volkov.
We entered the grand ballroom, and the sensory overload was instant. Crystal chandeliers the size of cars dripped from the ceiling. The room smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and power. Men in tuxedos stood in tight circles, discussing things that undoubtedly ended in bloodshed, while women in diamonds watched everything with sharp, calculating eyes.
But as we stepped further in, a hush rippled through the room. It started near the doors and spread like a wave until the orchestra seemed too loud in the sudden quiet.
Roman didn't pause. He walked me through the center of the crowd, his grip on my waist unyielding.
"Volkov," a man to our left murmured, dipping his head in respect—or fear.
Roman acknowledged him with a curt nod, but his eyes never left the path ahead. He was parading me. He was showing the wolves that he had caught the sun, and he dared them to try and take it.
"Champagne?" he asked as a waiter appeared, looking terrified.
"Please," I managed.
He handed me a flute, his fingers brushing mine. "Drink. It helps with the nerves. But stay sharp."
"Roman!" A booming voice cut through the tension.
A large man with a thick gray beard and a scar running through his eyebrow approached us, arms wide. He looked like a bear squeezed into a tuxedo.
"Kozlov," Roman greeted, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth.
"I didn't think you'd show," Kozlov laughed, his eyes darting immediately to me. The look wasn't friendly; it was hungry. Assessing. "And who is this? I heard rumors you kept a pet, but I didn't realize she was… housebroken."
The insult hung in the air, sharp and ugly.
My grip on the champagne glass tightened. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but before I could speak, the air around us dropped ten degrees.
Roman didn't shout. He didn't attack. He simply smiled—a slow, terrifying curling of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"Careful, Kozlov," Roman said softly. "You are speaking about my future wife."
The silence that followed was deafening. Kozlov's smile faltered. The people eavesdropping nearby froze.
"Wife?" Kozlov stammered, his gaze snapping back to Roman, fear replacing the hunger. "I… I meant no disrespect, Roman. She is stunning. A jewel."
"She is not a jewel," Roman corrected, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Jewels are bought and sold. She is my heart. And you know what I do to men who try to touch what is mine."
Kozlov swallowed hard, taking a step back. "Of course. My apologies. Enjoy the evening."
He fled. He actually fled.
I looked up at Roman, my heart hammering. "Future wife?" I whispered.
He looked down at me, the ice in his eyes melting into that dark, obsessive heat. "I told you, Ashley. This is the endgame. Now, dance with me."
He didn't wait for an answer. He took my glass, set it on a passing tray, and swept me onto the dance floor.
The orchestra swelled into a waltz. Roman pulled me flush against him, one hand engulfing my small hand, the other splayed possessively across the bare skin of my back.
We moved together effortlessly, as if my body had already memorized the map of his.
"You terrified him," I said, looking up at him.
"Good," Roman murmured. "Fear keeps you safe. I want them to know that looking at you is a risk. Speaking to you is a gamble. And touching you?" His eyes darkened. "Touching you is a death sentence."
"Is that all I am?" I asked, a spark of my old fire returning. "A warning sign?"
Roman stopped spinning. We stood in the center of the swirling room, an island of intensity. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against mine.
"No," he breathed. "You are the peace I never thought I deserved. You are the only thing in this wretched world that is clean. When I look at you, Ashley, I don't see a captive. I see the only reason I haven't burned this city to the ground."
His confession hit me harder than any threat. It was raw. It was terrifyingly honest.
I looked into the gray depths of his eyes and saw the boy who had slept with a knife under his pillow. I saw the monster who had broken my father's fingers to keep me. And I saw the man who had rebuilt my family's life from the ashes just to see me smile.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered, the realization settling in my chest like a heavy, warm stone.
Roman's expression fractured—relief and hunger warring for dominance.
"Say it again," he commanded hoarsely.
"I'm yours," I said, and for the first time, it didn't feel like a surrender. It felt like a choice.
He kissed me then. Right there in the middle of the gala, under the million-dollar chandeliers, in front of killers and thieves. He kissed me with a desperate, claiming passion that told everyone in the room exactly who owned whom.
When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed against my ear. "We were rudely interrupted," he murmured, voice low and dangerous. "And I'm a firm believer in finishing what we start."
Heat exploded in my cheeks, and I couldn't hide the blush even if I tried. "Roman—" I whispered, half shocked, half thrilled.
"You remember what we were doing before Mary banged on that damn door?" His gray eyes sparkled with that impossible mix of amusement and hunger. "We're going to finish it."
I swallowed, heart hammering. My knees went weak just from the way he said it. "I… I—"
"Mhmm," he hummed, already guiding me toward the exit, hand firm at my waist. "Blush all you want, Solnyshko. But you know exactly what I'm talking about."
And yeah… I did.
"To hell with the gala," he growled, dragging me toward the waiting car. "You look too beautiful in that dress. And I have suddenly lost the patience to share even the sight of you with these vultures."
We burst out into the cool night air, leaving the music and the stares behind.
As the car door closed, sealing us back into our private world, Roman didn't wait. He pulled me into his lap, hands tangling in my hair, mouth finding my throat.
"You did well, my Queen," he murmured into my skin. "But the real celebration starts now."
And as the car sped back toward the penthouse, toward the cage I had learned to call home, I leaned into him.
The sunbeam had finally learned to love the dark.
But...
She didn't know what was coming next. Not the next twist, not the next threat, not the next test.
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Author's Note:
Ah, the glamorous life of crime, chaos, and slightly inappropriate flirting… 😏💥
Ashley, our sunbeam trapped in a storm cloud, learning that walking into a gala with Roman is basically submitting to an extreme cardio workout for your heart. 💃
And Roman? Still emotionally unavailable, borderline terrifying, but somehow… soft-ish around the edges?
Don't worry, he's not letting anyone touch what's his, even if that means burning the world down for her. 😈💎
Remember, darlings: love in the underworld is messy, dramatic, and occasionally changes faster than a shadow in night. 🍾🔥
Stay alive. Or at least, stay fabulous.
P.S.: I apologize for keeping you dangling on the edge like a hapless acrobat—but let's be honest, what's a book without a few delicious twists? 😏
Don't get too comfortable, because the coming chapters will push you further, keep your heart racing, and have you gripping the edge of your seat wondering who will survive, who will fall… and who will steal your breath next.
Buckle up, darlings. The underworld doesn't do gentle even with the king or say king's future queen.
-Vaanni🖤