Crown of the Empire

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

The Takedo Estate had no business looking this immaculate.

Lanterns glowed along the winding driveway like tiny suns, their light catching on the glossy hoods of black cars lined up in militant rows. The gardens were trimmed with such precision I wondered if the gardeners carried rulers in their pockets. And the banners—embroidered with the Romanov crest entwined with the Takedo mon, stitched in red and gold silk—hung from the stone walls like a proclamation. Tonight wasn't just a party. It was a coronation. A statement. A warning, perhaps.

My engagement party.

God help me.

I stepped out of the car with all the grace my heels would allow, my hand linked with Nikolai's, my engagement ring catching the floodlights. The stone flared crimson like it knew this was its stage. Immediately, the press cameras started clicking in rapid bursts—long lenses poking from the far gates, forbidden but inevitable.

Inside, the estate looked like a museum had married a fortress. The foyer gleamed with marble and dark wood, staff in tailored uniforms moving like clockwork, trays of champagne held aloft as though gravity worked differently here.

I tightened my grip on Nikolai's hand, muttering low enough for only him to hear. "You didn't warn me you were planning a United Nations summit disguised as a party."

He didn't smirk, but the corner of his mouth shifted. For him, that was practically a laugh. "They came for you."

Oh, wonderful. No pressure at all.

The first wave of introductions nearly drowned me. Diplomats, CEOs, investment bankers who thought their cufflinks said more about them than their net worths. They smiled too wide, shook my hand too long, murmured congratulations with undertones of let's see how long she lasts.

But then the air shifted.

The Romanovs had arrived.

Nikolai's grandparents moved like winter personified. His grandmother in dark velvet, her pearls gleaming like frozen drops, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. His grandfather tall and austere, cane tapping once as he entered, as though marking the rhythm of the room. The crowd instinctively quieted, the way people do when power isn't announced but felt.

They reached us, their eyes sweeping over me with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. Then his grandmother spoke, her Russian accent crisp and cold.

"Katerina could not come. Urgent matters kept her in St. Petersburg."

I inclined my head, pulse steady though my mind was already racing. Katerina Romanov-Takedo—Nikolai's mother, the bridge between his bloodlines, the woman who had raised him—absent? That was no small matter.

"I understand," I replied smoothly, though my inner voice was less composed. Urgent matters. Translation: politics, business, or something they don't want whispered in these halls. And of course, they make sure everyone hears about it.

His grandfather's gaze stayed on me, heavy as granite. "But we are here. We would not miss this."

And then, in Russian, a soft aside: "Ты держись уверенно, девочка. Они все будут смотреть."

(Stand firm, girl. They will all be watching.)

I nodded once. Not as the daughter of Karsten Vergara, not as the heiress mocked in boardrooms, but as Mariya Elena—the woman who had walked into fire and chosen to build her own bank from the ashes.

Behind us, more guests were arriving. Somewhere in the mix, I saw a flash of familiar dark hair—my mother. Ellesandra Maraveni Antonio-Vergara, looking every bit the Spanish-Filipina matriarch she was born to be, her posture regal, her gown understated yet commanding. And beside her—my grandparents from the Antonio line, their Spanish inflection sharp as they greeted the hosts.