Sweet Riddle

IVAN

I sat back, silent, watching as the scene before me unfolded. The room was filled with men who had long since lost their humanity, men who followed orders without question. But her?

She was something else.

Katya stood there, bound, defiant, refusing to cower even as her father towered over her. There was something almost savage in the way she held herself—shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes burning with a fire that even her father's slap couldn't extinguish. She wasn't just resisting. She was daring them to try harder.

And I couldn't look away.

I had seen countless men break in this very room, had watched the strongest fall to their knees when faced with true power. But she wasn't breaking. She was fighting against the inevitable, against a world that had already decided her fate.

Her eyes flicked to Viktor.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but I caught it—the tension tightening her shoulders, the way her fingers curled into fists behind her back. There was history there, something unresolved, something bitter. And when she looked away, it wasn't with fear. It was with pure, seething hatred.

Interesting.

She started working at the ropes then, her breathing measured, her movements subtle but purposeful. Most people would have accepted their fate by now, would have tried to negotiate their way out of this. Not her.

She was going to escape, or she was going to die trying.

And fuck, if that wasn't the most captivating thing I had seen in years.

When the ropes finally gave way, she stood, and the air shifted. The men around us tensed, sensing what I did—that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot. Her father might think he had her under control, but he was wrong.

She turned to face him, the hatred rolling off her in waves.

"I'll never accept this," she spat. "You can't control me. You won't break me."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Her father's face remained unreadable, but I could see it in his eyes—the slow, simmering fury. The promise of consequences.

"You'll learn to obey," he said, his voice steady, final.

For the first time, something flickered in her expression. Not fear. Not surrender. Calculation.

She took a slow, deep breath, her posture shifting just slightly. I watched as something in her settled—not weakness, but strategy. She was choosing her next move.

And then, she spoke.

"I'll agree to the marriage," she said, her voice quiet but firm.

The room stilled.

I had expected another fight, more screaming, more fire. But this?

This was far more dangerous.

Because the way she said it wasn't resignation. It wasn't defeat.

It was control.

She wasn't submitting. She was playing the game.

And for the first time, I wondered if I had underestimated Katya Salifov.