Crown of the Empire

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The hum of the engines felt louder than usual, like the plane was mocking me with every vibration. I had the key in my lap again—black, sleek, heavier than sin.

The same key he pressed into my palm last night in Japan, right after he'd asked me to marry him in that infuriatingly calm way only he could. No fanfare, no roses, no kneeling on marble—just Nikolai, standing in a garden, saying marry me like it was gravity itself.

And I hadn't said no.

Now here I was, twenty thousand feet above the earth, fighting with the symbol of what I'd agreed to.

I snorted, spinning the key between my fingers. "You know, you're ridiculous. You're the only man on earth who proposes with a key. Not a ring. A key. Do you even hear how absurd that sounds?"

Across from me, Nikolai didn't look up from the report he was reading. Not even a flicker. Just his usual calm, calculated, infuriating composure.

Finally, he said, "It wasn't absurd. It was permanent."

I gawked at him. "Permanent? Nikolai, it's a house key, not the Ark of the Covenant. Rings are symbols of commitment. Keys are—what? Access codes? An invitation to water your plants?"

His mouth almost, almost curved. "I told you before. There are no plants. Only decisions to make."

God. He always had an answer.

I leaned back with a dramatic sigh, tossing my hair. "So that's it? No romance. Just: here's the key, welcome to the empire, sign here, initial there?"

"Rings are shiny. Keys are useful," he said, flipping a page of his report like he hadn't just sentenced me to a lifetime.

"You're impossible." I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "Do you know how much easier my life would be if you were just a normal guy? One who actually bought roses or maybe, I don't know, prepared?"

He looked up finally, and those dark eyes pinned me like they always did. "I don't improvise, Mariya. I adapt."

And damn it, he meant it.

I stared at the key, rolling it in my palm. I thought of my father, the venom in his words when he'd warned me: keep this up and I'll name Reigan as heir. You're too emotional, too reckless. He'd meant it. He'd strip me of the name, the legacy, everything.

But then there was this. The key. A symbol not of sentiment, but of power. Access. Permanence.

I laughed again, though this time it cracked at the edges. "So this is it, huh? This is your version of romance. Forget diamonds and violins, just hand me a key like I'm signing on to be your co-CEO."

He studied me for a moment, then said in that maddeningly steady voice, "More permanent than a ring. A ring can be pawned. This cannot."

My chest tightened. Damn him. Damn how right he was.

I shoved the key into my pocket and crossed my arms, scowling out the window. Clouds drifted by lazily, indifferent to the storm inside my head.

The key burned in my pocket. Not literally, of course, but every time I shifted, I felt its weight pressing against my thigh like a reminder.

My father's words kept echoing. You're too emotional. You shame the Vergara name. I'll raise Reigan instead. A boy is better than a woman who doesn't obey.

I'd heard cruel things before in boardrooms. Men dismissing me, mocking me, calling me decorative, calling me dangerous. But hearing it from him—that cut deeper than anything.