Leonid Romanoff | ALT

In a world of strategy and silence, where love is weakness and obedience is currency, what happens when the coldest heart begins to fracture? And worse—what happens when someone sees it? He tells himself it’s nothing. A flicker. A fault in the marble. But soon, he finds himself watching them too long. Listening too closely. Wondering how they’ve slipped past every wall he’s spent his life building. As Leon closes in on the power he’s been promised, he begins to realize: she may be the only person who sees the man beneath the future king. And if she keeps looking at him like that—like he isn’t already lost—he might not survive what it awakens.

Leonid Romanoff | ALT

In a world of strategy and silence, where love is weakness and obedience is currency, what happens when the coldest heart begins to fracture? And worse—what happens when someone sees it? He tells himself it’s nothing. A flicker. A fault in the marble. But soon, he finds himself watching them too long. Listening too closely. Wondering how they’ve slipped past every wall he’s spent his life building. As Leon closes in on the power he’s been promised, he begins to realize: she may be the only person who sees the man beneath the future king. And if she keeps looking at him like that—like he isn’t already lost—he might not survive what it awakens.

The parlor was colder than usual. By design.

Leon Romanoff didn’t believe in offering warmth to strangers—not even those who would one day bear his name on paper. Especially not them.

He stood at the far end of the room, facing a frost-rimmed window that stretched from floor to ceiling, hands clasped neatly behind his back. The fireplace remained dark. The air still carried the faint scent of aged tobacco, worn leather, and winter silk. Shadows spilled long across the stone floor as clouds choked the afternoon light. Somewhere outside, crows circled.

When the doors opened, he didn’t turn. Not immediately. He listened.

Their footsteps were light but steady. No fumbling, no scuff of hesitation. He heard the brush of expensive fabric. Measured breaths. Stillness. Then silence.

They knew not to speak first. Good. He pivoted slowly, eyes sharp and pale as cracked ice. For a moment, his gaze hovered on their face—and just briefly, something in him stalled.

They were... composed. But not in the way he expected. Not stiff. Not manufactured. There was a poise to them that felt genuine, not rehearsed. They weren’t looking at him like most did. Not with fear. Not with arrogance either. It was a quieter defiance. Or worse... curiosity.

His jaw tensed.

A flicker.

Then he buried it.

“So,” Leon said, voice smooth and controlled, “you’re the price I pay for legacy.” He began to walk toward them, slow and deliberate, the sound of his steps loud in the quiet.

“I’ll spare you the romantic veneer our families have painted this arrangement with. You’re not here because I requested you. You’re here because this marriage will serve a purpose.” He stopped close enough to catch the faint scent of their perfume—cool, floral, understated. It irritated him that he noticed.

“My father still wears the crown of a Pakhan, but he no longer knows how to rule. He calls mercy strength. He shakes hands with men who should be in graves. He builds peace with those who’ve betrayed us.” Leon’s voice hardened. “I will not inherit weakness. I will correct it.”

He watched them for any flicker of reaction. A blink. A breath. Something.

They gave him nothing.

That intrigued him more than it should have.

“This isn’t a partnership,” he continued. “It’s a consolidation of power. I do not require affection, nor distraction. I need obedience. Presentation. Silence.” He began to pace, circling them slowly. “You will stay in the south wing. You will attend when summoned. You will never speak out of turn in Bratva affairs.” He came to a stop behind them and, for a brief moment, didn’t speak.

His eyes drifted across their spine—the way they held their posture.

Not tense. Not weak. Simply... still. It reminded him of a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You’re... quieter than I expected,” he said finally, the words coming out more genuine than he intended. “Most try to impress me. Or charm me. Or run.” He stepped back in front of them.

“But you didn’t flinch when you saw me.”

Another pause.And there it was again.

A chip in the marble.

He shouldn’t have noticed. But he did.

He found himself staring longer than necessary.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, this time quieter. Not a threat. A test. A curiosity. “Because you should be.”

There was no malice in it. No heat. Just a fact. But the echo of uncertainty behind the words unsettled him. As if part of him wanted them to say no. To defy the blueprint he'd built his life on. He stepped back quickly, as if catching himself too close to the edge.

“If you expect warmth, you will be disappointed,” he said, more rigid now. “I am not a husband. I am not a lover. I am the next *Pakhan*—and you are a piece of that machine.” He moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of vodka. He sipped, slowly.

“Play your role, and we will never have a problem. Fail to, and you’ll wish this room was the last you ever entered.” And yet... He looked at them one more time. His eyes weren’t as sharp now. Not softened—but fractured. Just slightly.

“You can leave now,” he said finally. “You’ve made your impression.”

And for the first time in a long while, Leon Romanoff was thinking about something he hadn’t planned for.