ANASTASIA'S POV
At seventeen, I am one step closer to the crown. The crowning ceremony is coming in a few months, and with it, the blood oath will follow.
This is a tradition we were raised to honor.
A tradition that says whether the empire will stand strong in a few years by choosing the right leader.
And I am the next in line.
Once my eighteenth birthday arrives, it will mark the moment destined to unravel everything.
**
"Ivanov."
The silence fell heavy and suffocating.
Eyes darted across the room, searching for the familiar surname among the students.
"One last call. Dmitry Ivanov."
The teacher's voice remained firm and unshaken as if she wasn't standing in a classroom filled with heirs of power capable of destroying her with a word.
As the murmurs started to grow, footsteps were heard from the door, and it swung open abruptly.
"Here."
And there he was. Tall, broad shoulders, light skin filled with tattoos, dark wavy hair that matches his sharp brows. He has icy blue eyes that are cold, cutting, and dangerous.
A classic son of a socialite mafia member.
Dmitry Ivanov.
I knew him too well.
For years, I had seen him at family gatherings and at the Bratva's most elite parties. He was always cold and distant—a statue of ice in a room full of fire. Untouchable as hell. His appearance alone left the crowd in awe, which is why most of the girls were dying to get his attention.
Unfortunately, I am one of them.
I am part of the group that had fallen for him silently over the years, collecting his glances like they were currency. We never had a proper conversation in public, but not because I was too shy to approach him or because he was too distant to be reached. It was because a Kostkov and an Ivanov cannot be friends.
In our world, a handshake between our names looked too much like a declaration of war.
His father, Nikolai Ivanov, hated me — that's one thing I am sure of. He is my father's right hand—an ironic position, considering he held power just beneath ours: wealth, influence, and control over a third of the shipments. He served my father with a bowed head, but I saw the way he looked at the throne. He didn't want to serve; he wanted to rule. If not him? His son. And for some reason, his eyes told me he wanted me to vanish.
The rule? If the Pakhan died before naming a successor, the crown would go to him, and the Kostkov bloodline would end.
But it didn't, because I existed.
A disruption in a world that only made space for men. And now a hindrance to the Ivanov's bloodline to claim the crown after years of waiting.
"What is your excuse today, Ivanov?" the teacher snapped. "Unclean socks? Dirty uniform?"
Then there is a brief silence that surrounds the whole classroom. It's uneasy, always uneasy, when it is about him.
"I buried my cat," he replied flatly. "I guess nothing is more important than that."
A faint twitch pulled at the teacher's eye.
"Excuses," she said with a controlled, irritated tone, "Sit at the back. Next to Miss Kostkov."
My breath stilled for a second.
My gaze lifted and met his. For a second too long, something unspoken passed between us. It was not personal, but an inherited tension. A quiet war between bloodlines.
I looked away first.
I always did.
His footsteps echoed as he approached. When he finally stopped beside me, his presence was overwhelming. He was so close I could catch the scent of his expensive cologne, the familiar fragrance he wore on the rare occasions he allowed himself to just be a teenager.
He pulled his chair back with a sharp scrape and kicked his feet up onto the empty seat in front of him. I watched the restless sway of his boots; he began to rock the chair aggressively, the rhythmic thudding filling the silence of the room.
"What do you mean the cat died?" I whispered, finally breaking the sacred rule of our silence for this one moment.
The sound didn't stop. If anything, he swung his feet faster, like a madman trying to outrun a thought.
"Dmitry, what do you mean—" I repeated, my voice firmer this time, but he cut me off before I could finish.
Suddenly, the motion stopped. The chair hit the floor with a dull thud. He turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto mine. The silence that followed was heavier than before—thick with a tension I couldn't name, a dark gravity pulling us together.
"Ellie is dead," he said, his voice a jagged edge.
My breath caught the moment I heard it. The moment those lines registered in my mind.
"Because you didn't take care of her when I secretly told you I'd be gone."
The irritation in me shattered instantly. The sound of the rocking chair earlier faded, and even the voice of our teacher in front faded.
I looked at him. I searched into his eyes for a hint of a joke, or maybe a hint that none of the words he said were true.
"What?" My head snapped toward him. "Ellie...I—I didn't know...H-how—"
"I sent you a letter, Ana."
My name—soft, familiar, yet entirely wrong in his mouth. He was the only one who called me that, a nickname that had slipped from his lips when we were eight, the same year we first started breaking the rules.
"I told you everything in it. Don't make excuses." His whispered with his jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze hardening.
Ellie.
She was the small, trembling kitten we found after a training session when we were eight years old. She had been soaked to the bone, shivering behind the training hall in the freezing rain. When I first saw her, I had been too terrified to touch her—too afraid to bring her home, knowing my father would see her as a weakness to be killed.
So, I crossed the line. I broke the unspoken decree that a Kostkov must never speak to an Ivanov. I called out to him from the shadows of that rainy afternoon, desperation outweighing duty.
Together, we gave Ellie a place to belong. A home.
In the hidden space behind the training hall, we built a small shelter just for her. We fed her. We cleaned her. We passed secret letters back and forth—coded messages disguised as threats—just to ensure she was safe.
She was our shared secret. Our only piece of innocence.
But as the years passed, the world demanded more of me. I became distant and preoccupied—not by choice, but by survival. Dmitry became the only one left to care for her... until everything fell apart.
"I couldn't visit her these past few days—"
"She's dead." His voice cut through mine. It was so cold, but still whispering.
"Your words don't matter now."
Something in my chest tightened painfully, but I didn't look away, even when I should have. Even when I felt myself breaking in front of him.
"If you can't protect a cat," he said quietly, "how do you expect us to believe you can protect the Bratva?"
Each word landed like a blow.
"I should not have expected things from you, Ana."
The silence now between us became heavier and unforgiving.
I looked at him with furious eyes and was full of unspoken words I'd rather not say. I wanted to argue. To fight. To prove that I was more than what he saw. But nothing came out.
The words died somewhere between my throat and my pride.
I shifted uncomfortably and just tried to focus on the lesson, but somewhere inside me is broken. Behind those focused eyes are unshed tears I fought hard not to show.
**
The rest of the class blurred into a haze of white noise. Lectures on business, shipment tactics, and cold-blooded strategy—the lessons meant to mold us into the next generation of the Bratva—burned fruitlessly in my mind.
The second the bell rang, I saw him move. I gathered my things in a feverish blur, matching his pace until I was close enough to see the tension in his shoulders.
As he stood to leave, I reached out. Without thinking, I get his wrist.
"I want to see her," I said. My voice was steadier than the chaos in my chest. "Let me say goodbye... Dmitry."
He looked down at my hand. It was our first time touching—skin against skin. It felt like a chemical reaction: burning, forbidden, and impossibly real. For a heartbeat, I thought he would shake me off and walk past me as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience in his already blood-stained life.
But then, he stopped.
He turned his head slowly, his gaze dropping to where my fingers met his pulse. His hand tightened around the strap of his bag, his knuckles turning white for a fraction of a second before he finally exhaled.
"...Fine."
The word was quiet, weighted with a reluctance that bordered on pain. But it was enough.
We walked out of the classroom together—not side by side, not close enough to be mistaken as anything more than coincidence.
It's close enough just to feel that he is still there; he is still going to lead me to Ellie.
Because if we do get closer? It will be a huge, unforgiving discussion waiting.
As we walked, the hallway buzzed with voices, laughter, careless conversations of students who would never understand the weight of the world waiting for us outside these walls.
But as we passed, the noise shifted. The voices became lower. Then the silence followed. Their eyes were darting between us. One whispered something we did not fully hear. Some are in shock.
I knew things like this like the back of my hand. Of course, they saw it. They will talk about it.
Kostkov.
Ivanov.
Walking in the same direction.
That alone was enough to spark whispers.
I could feel him. He is just a step behind me. He's close enough that I could hear his breathing when the hallway fell silent for a second too long, but neither of us spoke.
Beyond the main buildings. Past the training rooms. We reached a place no one really visited.
The back gate of the training room.
The air felt different here. It's colder, quieter, untouched, the moment we reached it.
He stopped first, then I followed his footsteps. My eyes scanned the area until they landed on it.
A small mound of earth beneath a dying tree.
My chest tightened. My usual controlled voice trembled slightly the moment I saw Ellie's grave.
"That's... her?" I asked.
Dmitry didn't answer.
But he didn't have to.
I stepped closer as my movements became slower now, careful—as if one wrong step might disturb something sacred...or fragile.
I knelt in front of the small grave. My fingers hovered above the soil before finally pressing gently against it.
"My Ellie...I-I'm sorry," I whispered with a trembling voice.
The words felt too small.
Too late.
"I-I didn't know. If I did, I would've—"
"You didn't," he cuts in.
His voice came from behind me. It was low and tight, like a blade wrapped in quiet.
"Stop saying sorry in front of Ellie like you actually cared."
I swallowed hard as my gaze just locked on that soil where Ellie was buried.
"I trusted you," he added.
And that...that hurt more than anything else.
Slowly, I stood up, brushing the dirt from my hands and regaining my composure.
"I would have taken care of her," I said, turning to face him with a steadier voice now.
"You know I would have," I said as his eyes met mine.
And for the first time, they weren't just cold. They were angry. I could feel the hurt from the inside. The vulnerability only the two of us know.
"How do you expect me to believe that, Ana? I sent you a letter. I told you she's sick and needed food. Where were you when she needed you?" His voice is painful and accusing now.
The words hit harder than they should have. I stood my ground, meeting his gaze one more time.
"I never received any letter," I said, my voice quieter now—but firm, holding onto the truth like it was the only thing I had left. "Not one. Because if I did? I would've rushed out and taken care of her."
For a second—just a second—something flickered in his eyes.
Hesitation.
Doubt.
Hope.
But it vanished as quickly as it came.
"Stop," he cut in sharply, his jaw tightening. "Just—stop."
"I'm not lying!" I insisted fast, my chest started tightening in defense. "Why would I lie about something like that? Ellie—"
"I said stop!" This time, his voice was rising too, and it was final.
I held myself back. He never raised his voice. Not even once. His usual composure cracked.
At that moment, the distance between us snapped back into place. It's wider than before. More dangerous than ever.
I swallowed the rest of my words because I saw it now. He was too hurt to listen.
And maybe... too angry to believe me even if he did.
"Ellie died with no comfort, Ana. I hope you'll be happy thinking about that when you started ignoring her and giving me the full responsibility alone."
My fist clenched on my sides. I am so mad that I could rip my skirt into pieces. I wanted to throw something, to rage it out.
But I didn't.
Instead, I watched him turn on his heel and saw his retreating figure painfully.
But as he's about to leave, a slow clap echoes from behind us, breaking the painful silence earlier.
Once.
Twice.
Then it feels like it's mocking.
Both of us turned at the same time. A familiar figure stepped out from the shadows, which made me step back a little.
And suddenly, the argument didn't matter anymore.
Because whatever was about to happen next was far worse than being misunderstood.