POV: Alyssa Ambrose

I stabbed my fork into the grilled salmon like it personally offended me.

The dining room of the Ambrose estate was pristine as always—white marble floors, ten-foot crystal chandelier, polished mahogany table big enough to seat royalty. But beneath all that sparkle? Toxic tension. The kind that made my skin itch and my patience snap.

My father sat at the head of the table, business casual in his gray Armani, radiating that cold corporate control he was famous for. My mother, Daniella, wore her usual silk and pearls, sipping wine like this was just another glamorous Tuesday.

Leo, my big brother and permanent pain in my ass, was seated across from me. He was scrolling through his phone with one hand and shoveling mashed potatoes with the other.

And then there was me—Alyssa Ambrose. Daughter. Heiress. Professional chaos machine.

“Can we get to the part where someone tells me why this ‘family dinner’ was summoned like it’s the goddamn Last Supper?” I asked, twirling my fork.

Leo chuckled under his breath but didn’t look up. My mother shot me a look that would’ve made a weaker woman flinch. Too bad I was already used to it.

My father finally spoke. His voice was smooth, unreadable. “Alyssa, you’re twenty-one. It’s time you stopped playing games.”

“That’s rich,” I muttered. “Especially coming from the man who built a tech empire by controlling every variable, including his daughter’s calendar.”

Leo glanced up now, eyebrows raised. He sensed the storm.

My father reached into his suit pocket and slid a manila folder across the table toward me. It stopped just short of my plate.

“What is this?” I asked, not touching it.

“Your engagement contract,” he said.

I blinked.

Laughed.

Stopped laughing.

“What?”

“You’ll be marrying Nikolai Meadows in three weeks.”

Silence.

Deafening, deadly silence.

Then—

“The fuck I am,” I snapped, pushing my chair back and standing. “You can’t just sell me off like some pawn in one of your corporate mergers.”

My mom’s wine glass clinked too hard against the table. “Alyssa—”

“No,” I cut her off, voice shaking with rage. “You’ve controlled everything. My school. My job. My clothes. But you don’t get to control who I give my body to.”

Leo stood now too. “What the hell is this, Dad? Nikolai? Seriously?”

“He’s a powerful man,” my father said. “He’ll protect her. Provide for her.”

“Oh yeah?” I hissed. “And what’s the price for that protection? My soul?”

“He agreed to the deal.”

I froze.

He knew. That arrogant, cold bastard already knew I was being handed over like a toy with a bow.

I grabbed the wjne glass and smacked it onto. the floor then i grabbed folder and stormed away, heels clacking like gunshots across marble. My heart thundered in my chest. I didn’t know if I was going to scream, cry, or throw up.

Nikolai Meadows.

The name alone sent shivers down my spine. Mafia king. CEO. Russian brute with a reputation that made grown men piss themselves.

He wanted me?

Fine.

But he’d learn real quick—

I’m not the kind of girl you tame.

I’m the kind you survive.

Chapter Two — POV: Nikolai Meadows

---

The man on the floor gurgled as Luka’s boot pinned his chest, and a bullet silenced the sound for good.

Crimson splattered across the cement. The stench of blood and piss filled the Bratva basement—my personal playground for handling betrayal.

I didn’t flinch.

This was routine.

A message.

A statement.

I adjusted the cuffs of my black dress shirt, watching Luka drag the corpse across the blood-slick floor like it weighed nothing. My second-in-command moved with eerie calm, as if he were taking out the trash rather than a corpse.

I walked to the steel counter at the back of the room, poured myself a glass of vodka, and stared into the clear liquid. My phone vibrated on the metal surface.

Matthew Ambrose.

I let it ring once before answering.

“She knows,” the man said without a greeting. His voice was tired, nervous—an emotion I didn’t tolerate.

“Alyssa?” I asked, cool and flat.

“She caused a scene at dinner. Screamed. Threw wine. Accused me of selling her like property.”

I let out a faint chuckle. Of course she did. My future wife had a mouth that matched the flames in her blood. I’d be disappointed if she hadn’t fought back.

“Good,” I said simply.

There was a pause on the other end.

“You really think she’ll go through with it?”

“She has no choice.” I downed the vodka, the burn sliding down like fire. “And I’m not interested in her consent.”

“You’re a cold bastard.”

I smiled faintly, gazing out the bulletproof window of my underground fortress.

“She’ll thank me eventually,” I said. “When I’ve torn down her walls and rebuilt her into something better.”

“You don’t know my daughter.”

“Oh, but I do.” My voice dropped. “I know every inch of her.”

I ended the call before he could respond.

**

Later that night, I stood in my penthouse—walls of glass showcasing Moscow’s skyline like a kingdom I ruled. The city below didn’t sleep. Neither did I.

The manila folder lay open on my coffee table.

Inside were photos of Alyssa Ambrose.

Some tabloid, others captured through my surveillance network. But every one of them told a story—of temptation, rebellion, and the wildfire I’d soon own.

Alyssa strutting in high heels and tight leather pants outside a tech launch.

Alyssa caught mid-laugh, head tilted back, lips parted.

Alyssa lying on a beach, tan legs sprawled, sunglasses half off.

Every image fed the monster inside me.

The desire to dominate her.

Break her.

And then... keep her.

My cock hardened at the thought. Not just of her body—but her resistance. Her spirit. That mouth that never shut up, always so quick with sarcasm and heat.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she once told a reporter.

I traced a finger over the photo.

“You do now, krasotka.”

I leaned back in my chair, watching the city.

In less than a month, she’d wear my ring.

And soon after, my last name.

Not Ambrose.

Meadows.

And I’d make sure the world—and Alyssa—never forgot it.

Chapter Three — POV: Alyssa Ambrose

---

I knew what I was doing when I put on the outfit.

Black silk that clung to my tits like a second skin. The neckline dipped so low it may as well not have existed, and the skirt rode so high every step felt like a risk. My heels clicked as I walked toward the elevator, each step a silent “fuck you” to the man I was being sent to.

Nikolai Meadows.

The name tasted like ash.

Two days had passed since the dinner from hell. I still remembered my father’s words echoing like a death sentence. You’re marrying him. It’s already done.

And now, here I was, being shoved into the jaws of the devil because Daddy dearest needed a tech merger to save his sinking empire. He called it business.

I called it betrayal.

“You look... decent,” the driver said awkwardly, eyes flicking up and down my barely-dressed frame as he opened the car door.

Decent? Try whoreish. That was the point.

Let Nikolai think I was nothing but a spoiled brat with a shopping addiction and no self-respect. Maybe then he’d cancel the engagement, tear up the contract, and I’d be free.

Wishful thinking. But hell, I had to try.

The car slid through the icy Moscow streets like a shadow, silent and tense. When we pulled up to Nikolai’s skyscraper, I smirked.

Of course his building screamed “I own everything.” Black glass. Armed guards. A lobby that looked more like a throne room.

I stepped out of the car and strutted through those polished glass doors like I owned the place.

Let him see me.

Let him regret ever putting his name next to mine.

The elevator opened at the top floor, revealing his penthouse.

Dark. Expensive. Cold.

Just like him.

He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to me, suit hugging every inch of his muscular frame like it was stitched on by the devil himself.

“Nikolai Meadows,” I drawled, letting his name drag on my tongue like a dare.

He didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he sipped from a crystal glass, as if he hadn’t just sold my soul for a merger.

When he finally faced me, his eyes didn’t flick to my legs or my tits.

No.

They went straight to my face.

His expression? Unreadable.

No heat. No shame.

Just cold, calculated interest.

And that terrified me more than lust ever could.

“You dressed for attention,” he said finally, voice smooth and accented like dark wine.

I crossed my arms, lips curving into a sharp smile. “I dressed to make you regret choosing me.”

He stepped forward. Slowly. Like a predator.

“I don’t regret a single thing,” he murmured. “But you? You will.”

My breath hitched.

Fuck.

This wasn’t going to plan But hell I wasn't about to give up yet.

I will show him who is in control whether he liked it or not.