HIS VELVET OBSESSION

The debt

He hadn’t told me a thing. Not a hint. Normally, we weren’t this formal but tonight, every word felt deliberate.

Then my father’s eyes flicked to Xavier. A subtle tilt of the head. A beckon.

Xavier rose smoothly from his seat and walked to the front. Tall, broad, imposing. Every step was measured, confident. He stopped beside my father, eyes scanning the crowd with a calm, predatory precision.

My chest tightened.eyes flicked to Xavier. A subtle tilt of the head. A beckon.

Xavier rose smoothly from his seat and walked to the front. Tall, broad, imposing. Every step was measured, confident. He stopped beside my father, eyes scanning the crowd with a calm, predatory precision.

My chest tightened.

He didn’t glance at me not once. And yet, I felt the weight of his presence press against me, suffocating and absolute.

Then, in a voice that carried without a hint of warmth, Xavier addressed the room.

“I’ve been trained for this. I’ve learned what is required. And I will make this company stronger than it has ever been.”

The crowd murmured, some faces flicking with surprise. He wasn’t polite. He wasn’t cautious. He didn’t smile and soften his tone. He was sharp. Cold. Commanding. Every word landed like a gavel.

I felt my stomach drop further. The whispers, the looks they were all saying the same thing: this was no ordinary celebration. This was a takeover, announced in public, under my very eyes.

My father nodded once at Xavier.

The toast had barely begun when the sound hit us a dull, rhythmic thud from the front of the estate, followed by the jagged scream of tearing metal.

The heavy oak doors of the ballroom didn't just open; they were kicked off their hinges.

The sophisticated hum of the room died instantly, replaced by the terrifying metallic slide of safeties being switched off. A line of men in tactical black gear flooded the space, their presence a dark stain against the gold and crystal of my father’s "celebration."

These weren't the "sharks" in suits I had been surrounded by all night. These were the wolves. The Bratva.

The guests scrambled, a wave of panic sending crystal glasses shattering across the marble floor. I stood frozen near the center of the room, my emerald dress a target I couldn't hide.

At the front of the room, my father’s face went from triumph to a sickly, ashen gray. But Xavier... Xavier didn't flinch. He stepped forward, shielding my father with his massive frame, his hand disappearing into the small of his back to draw a weapon I hadn't even known he was carrying.

A man stepped through the center of the masked invaders. He wasn't wearing a mask. He had a jagged scar running through one eyebrow and a look of bored cruelty that made my blood turn to ice.

"The party seems a bit dull," the man said, his Russian accent thick and heavy. He looked around the room, his eyes skipping over the cowering businessmen until they landed on me. He tilted his head. "And here I thought we were invited to a birthday."

"You’re a long way from home, Viktor," my father hissed, his voice trembling despite his best efforts.

"Home is wherever I take it," Viktor replied. He gestured to his men, and the circle began to tighten around us. "Now, we have a problem. You owe a debt that a 'material company' cannot pay. But I see you have other... assets."

He pointed a gloved finger directly at me.

Before I could even scream, I felt a familiar, crushing weight. Xavier had reached back, grabbing my arm with a grip like a vice, yanking me behind the solid wall of his chest.

"She isn't an asset," Xavier growled, the barrel of his gun leveled directly at Viktor’s head. "She's mine. And if you take one more step, I’ll paint this ballroom with your brains.”Viktor didn’t flinch at the sight of Xavier’s gun. Instead, his smirk widened, revealing a gold tooth that glinted wickedly under the chandeliers. He reached into his pocket slowly, making sure Xavier saw every movement.

"Big words for a boy who just got off a plane from London," Viktor mused. He pulled out a crumpled, yellowed photograph and held it up.

He flicked the photo toward them. I

"Tell me, Xavier," Viktor’s voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Does the 'little bird' know why her mother really died? Does she know about the deal made eighteen years ago in the snow of St. Petersburg?

Xavier’s jaw tightened, his grip on my arm becoming almost painful. For the first time, I felt a tremor in his hand. Not fear but a simmering, volcanic rage.

"Lower the gun," Viktor commanded, his men stepping forward in unison, their weapons clicking as they took aim. "Or I tell her exactly how she lost her mother.

He pointed a jagged finger at my father, who had collapsed into a chair, looking like a ghost of the man who had just claimed to be king.

The room went deathly silent. My heart stopped. I looked at the back of Xavier’s head, waiting for him to laugh, to fire, to do anything. Instead, the heavy barrel of his weapon slowly began to dip toward the floor.

"Xavier?" I whispered, the name a plea.

He didn't turn around. "Don't look at the photo, Astrid," he rasped, his voice sounding broken.

"The debt isn't money, boy," Viktor shouted, stepping over the photo. "The debt is her. And the Bratva has come to collect."