𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐯𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

They handed her to me in a silk dress and diamond collar.
The spoiled Sokolov princess.
The executioner's daughter.
My wife.

Kira Sokolov dances in chaos like it's a language she invented-
spinning through Paris in stilettos, kissing danger with blood-red lips,
dragging her demons behind her like a designer coat.

She was meant to be my obligation.
A Bratva arrangement sealed in blood and silence.
I never wanted a wife.
Especially not one with wild eyes, bipolar swings, and a mouth that lives to drive me insane.

But now she's mine.
My problem.
My obsession.

And when she falls apart in my arms-
with whispers to ghosts and bruised apologies-
I'll burn kingdoms to keep her breathing.

Because no one touches what belongs to Ivan Smirnov.
Not the bratva.
Not her past.
Not even her own madness.

She was born royalty.
But she'll die as something else.

Mine.