The gunshot ripped through the room like a damn thunderclap.
I wasn't supposed to be there. Not at that party. Not in that gown. And sure as hell not standing over a man with a bullet in his skull and blood soaking into my shoes.
But there I was.
"Fuck," I whispered, my breath catching on the stench of fresh death.
Glass shattered somewhere behind me. Screams echoed. Music died. And in the silence that followed, I made the mistake of lifting my head.
He was there.
Tall. Impossibly still. Wearing a black suit like sin wore him proudly. A gun lowered in his hand, the barrel still smoking. Eyes locked on mine like he knew me. Like he owned me.
Roman Valenko.
I had read about him in articles, tech mogul, billionaire genius, youngest CEO to scale three companies before thirty. But the stories whispered in alleys, behind locked doors and paid-off tabloids? Those said something else.
Son of Konstantin Valenko, former Bratva boss turned European political ghost. Raised by shadows. Feared like a fucking idol.
I was supposed to be reporting on this event, not starring in its headline.
My heels slipped on the slick floor as I backed away from the body. There was blood on the marble. Real blood. A man was dead. Gone.
And Roman fucking Valenko had pulled the trigger.
His voice cut through the chaos like a knife.
"Don't run."
I froze.
"Why?" I choked out. "So you can shoot me too?"
His lips twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. Something darker. "Not unless you make me."
Fuck.
He moved toward me, slow. Like there wasn't a corpse cooling on the floor between us. Like we weren't in the middle of a war zone.
I backed up until I hit a pillar, heart pounding like it wanted to crawl out of my chest. My phone was in my clutch, somewhere under the table I'd ducked behind. My press badge was still clipped inside my coat along with the USB drive I'd risked everything for.
I was so fucked.
He stopped inches from me. Taller than he looked in the articles. Built like every inch of him had been carved to intimidate.
He tilted his head. Studied me. Then, in a voice too calm for a man who just committed murder, he said:
"What's your name?"
"I…I'm nobody. Just… I was covering the event. I swear, I didn't see anything."
"You saw everything."
His tone didn't rise. Didn't threaten. But the promise in it was cold.
I swallowed. My legs shook. My lungs were barely working.
He glanced at the chaos unraveling around us, the security scrambling to secure exits, the guests being ushered out, the polished cleanup crew that seemed way too prepared.
This wasn't a spontaneous hit. This was staged. Coordinated. A warning.
And now, apparently, I was a witness.
"Let's go," he said simply.
"What? No. I'm not going anywhere with you"
"You don't have a choice."
Two of his men appeared like shadows. One checked my purse. The other pressed something cold against my side. A fucking gun.
I didn't scream. Didn't cry. I was too frozen for that.
Roman nodded, and just like that, I was being dragged through a hallway of glittering lies into a world I'd only heard about through rumors and threats.
I woke up hours later in a room that smelled like expensive wood and leather, with no windows and a headache blooming behind my eyes.
"Good. You're awake," Roman said from the corner.
I jolted. "You kidnapped me."
"No. I saved you."
"Bullshit."
He stood, walked to the bar, and poured something amber into a glass. He didn't offer me one.
"You would've been dead by now if I hadn't taken you."
"Because you killed a man! I saw it. So now what? You keep me locked up until I forget?"
He took a slow sip. "You're not going to forget. You're a journalist. You live for stories like this."
"Then why not kill me and get it over with?"
He walked up to me, pulled something from his jacket, and tossed it onto the bed. A diamond ring. Massive. Cold.
I stared at it, confused.
"What is that?"
"Your solution."
"To what?"
"Survival."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
"No. Just practical. You'll be my fiancée. Publicly."
"Go to hell."
He leaned in. Eyes colder than anything I'd ever seen.
"You walked into my world, Siena Vale. You saw what you weren't supposed to. And now the only thing keeping you breathing… is me."
"You want me to fake a relationship with you? For how long?"
"Until I say otherwise."
"Why?"
His jaw flexed. "Because war is coming. And I need a distraction. You."
I should've said no. Should've fought. Screamed. Thrown something.
But the memory of that man's body, of Roman's gun, of the way his men moved like death had already been decided, it all shut me up.
I stared at the ring again.
And I said, "Fine. But if I die in this, I'm haunting the fuck out of you."
He almost smiled. "Deal."
God help me.
I'd just agreed to marry the man who should've killed me.