Crown of the Empire

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The captain's voice crackled overhead, calm and professional, announcing in clipped tones that we were making our final descent into Sheremetyevo International Airport. My stomach tightened in protest. It wasn't the turbulence. I'd survived worse over the Pacific with engines that sounded like dying beasts. No, this was different. This was nerves.

Moscow. The word itself carried frost.

I leaned toward the oval window, pulling the fur of my coat tighter around me as the clouds parted and revealed the city sprawled beneath. Moscow in winter was a painting, but not one of those light, pretty watercolors. No, it was oil on canvas, bold strokes of gray and white, gilded edges where onion-domed cathedrals caught the pale sun. The Moscow River sliced through it all, half-frozen, a steel blade embedded in snow.

It looked ancient. Heavy. Eternal. A city that didn't just survive history—it dictated it.

"Beautiful," I whispered without meaning to.

From across the cabin, Nikolai's voice was steady, low. "It's harsh."

I turned to him, arching a brow. "Like you, then."

He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Which meant I'd landed the jab.

The plane sank lower, cutting through gray skies. My breath fogged faintly in the chill seeping through the cabin as wheels kissed runway with surgical precision. Smooth. Of course it was smooth. Nothing in Nikolai's world was allowed to wobble.

But then I saw them.

Beyond the private hangar's glass wall, a storm waited. Not snow. Worse. Cameras. Reporters. Flashes already igniting like gunfire against the windows. A barricade of journalists pressed against velvet ropes, their voices muffled but insistent even through the glass.

My stomach dropped. "You didn't tell me there'd be paparazzi."

"You didn't ask."

I twisted in my seat to glare at him. "That's not how disclosure works!"

"They would've been here regardless," he replied calmly, buttoning his coat like this was just another Tuesday. "Romanovs don't arrive unnoticed."

I scoffed. "Well, congratulations. Now the world gets photos of me looking like I'm about to vomit."

He glanced at me, gaze cutting. "You don't look like that."

My throat caught for half a second. Compliment? Observation? Who knew with him.

The door opened, and a rush of air knifed through the cabin. Cold. The kind of cold that wasn't just weather but history. My lashes prickled with frost before we'd even stepped out.

Nikolai descended first, tall and commanding against the blinding snow. Cameras exploded in light, a frenzy of voices shouting his name. He didn't wave. Didn't flinch. He simply arrived, and the ground seemed to acknowledge it.

Then it was my turn.

The flight attendant gave me a sympathetic look. I inhaled sharply, lifted my chin, and stepped into the chaos.

The cold slapped me like a challenge. My heels clicked sharply against the icy tarmac, echoing louder than the paparazzi questions.

"Mariya Vergara!" one voice called out, accented English slicing through the din. "The banking heiress!"

"Miss Vergara, how long have you and Mr. Takedo been working together?" another shouted.

"Are you romantically linked?"