HIS VELVET OBSESSION

A surprise?

Martha said it was nothing and pressed the teacup into my hand, but it didn’t feel like nothing. The porcelain felt too heavy, as if it carried the weight of what I was about to face.

I climbed the stairs slowly, even though every part of me wanted to turn back. My legs felt unbearably heavy, each step harder than the last. Facing him once had already been too much so how was I supposed to face him again?

I stopped in front of the study door and lifted my hand to knock.

That was when I heard their voices.

They were talking about my birthday. About people coming. About Russia. About how they would play them before they arrived. The words didn’t fully make sense, but the tone did and it made my stomach drop.

I stumbled back slightly, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Before I could lose my nerve, I knocked.

“Come in,” my father called.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, balancing the two cups of tea in my shaking hands. “Martha asked me to bring this,” I said quietly.

Xavier’s eyes lifted to mine.

He didn’t speak. He just stared slow, deliberate, like he was studying prey that had wandered too close. My skin prickled under his gaze.

My father glanced between us. “She’s your sister,” he said flatly.

Xavier didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His eyes said enough cold, possessive, unreadable.

Then my father turned his attention to me, looking me up and down before speaking in a calm, almost casual voice. “Go get dressed. Today is your birthday. I want a small celebration.”

My breath caught.

“Xavier will be joining us,” he added. “Don’t celebrate too soon.

I nodded without trusting myself to speak, turned around, and walked out.

As I left, I felt it Xavier’s smirk burning into my back.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, the tray clattered onto my vanity. I leaned heavily against the wood, my breath coming in jagged, shallow gasps. My room usually my only sanctuary now felt like a staging ground for a execution.

I looked at the dress laid out on the bed.

It was stunning. Deep emerald silk that looked like liquid forest floor, expensive enough to buy a person's silence. My father didn’t do anything halfway; if this was a "celebration," I was expected to look like a trophy, not a daughter.

I began to dress, my fingers fumbling with the delicate hooks. Every brush of the silk against my skin made me flinch. I felt like I was being wrapped in a shroud.

I sat at the vanity to do my hair, staring at my reflection. I looked pale, my eyes wide and haunted. With practiced hands, I began to apply a mask of makeup pinching my cheeks for color I didn't feel, painting my lips a shade of red that looked like a warning.

As I reached for my necklace, I stopped. My hands were still shaking.

I could still feel Xavier’s eyes on me. “She’s your sister,” my father had said, but the way Xavier looked at me didn't feel like brotherhood. It felt like a trap. And then there were the words I’d overheard the Bratva, the "clearing" of the family.

Was this dinner a celebration of my birth, or was it the beginning of the end?

I stood up, smoothing the silk over my hips. I looked perfect. I looked like a girl who had everything. I looked like a lie.

There was a soft knock at the door—not the hesitant tap of a maid, but something firmer. More certain.

My heart hammered against my ribs again. It was time.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Martha. Of course it was Martha.

I opened the door, and the old housekeeper stood there, her eyes sweeping over me. For a second, her professional mask wavered, and I saw a flicker of that same pity I’d seen in the hallway.

"You look beautiful, Astrid," she whispered, though her voice lacked any real joy. She reached out, adjusting a stray lock of my hair with trembling fingers. "He’s waiting. They’re both waiting in the dining hall."

"Martha," I said, my voice barely a thread. "What they said in there... about Russia... about the Bratva..."

She pulled her hand back as if I’d burned her. She looked down the hallway, her face turning pale. "It isn't for us to know, child. We just do as we're told. That is how we stay safe."

She didn't believe it. I could see it in the way she wouldn't meet my eyes. She wasn't telling me how to stay safe; she was telling me how to disappear.

"Go on now," she urged, giving me a small, firm nudge toward the stairs. "Don't keep them waiting. You know how he gets when the soup goes cold."

I walked down the grand staircase, the emerald silk of my dress hissing against the marble steps like a snake in the grass. The house felt too quiet, the air thick with the scent of expensive cigars and old, rotting secrets.

As I reached the arched entrance to the dining room, I stopped. The table was set with the fine crystal, the candlelight dancing off the silver. My father sat at the head, nursing a glass of amber liquid.

And there, draped in a chair to his right, was Xavier. He had changed into a black suit that made him look like a shadow come to life. He was spinning a heavy gold coin across his knuckles, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

When I stepped into the light, the coin stopped mid-spin. He caught it in his palm, his lips curling into that same slow, terrifying smirk.

"There she is," my father said, his voice booming unpleasantly in the quiet room. "The birthday girl. Sit, Astrid.

Dinner passed in near silence. Cutlery clicked softly against porcelain, the sound too loud in the heavy room. I barely tasted the food. Every time I lifted my eyes, Xavier was already watching me—calm, unblinking, as if my presence alone interested him more than the meal.

When we stood to leave the table, my father cleared his throat, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“This isn’t the main celebration,” he said lightly. “I have a surprise for you, Astrid.”

My stomach tightened.

A surprise?

I followed them down the corridor, confusion giving way to unease. The doors to the ballroom were already open.

Light spilled out.

I followed them toward the ballroom, my unease curdling into something far sharper. As the doors swung wide, light spilled out, blinding and cold.

I stopped short.

The room wasn't filled with the sounds of a party. There was no music, no laughter only the low, predatory hum of men in suits. They stood in clusters, clutching crystal glasses of amber liquid, their eyes weighing and measuring everything in the room.

This wasn’t a birthday. There was no cake. No joy. There was only power, and the terrifying realization that I was the reason they were all here.

My father moved ahead, already morphing into the king among his allies, clapping shoulders and sharing sharp, toothy smiles. I stood frozen, my emerald dress suddenly feeling like a neon sign in a dark room.