The Bride He Was Ordered To Kill

The Bride He Was Ordered to Kill Chapter 1: The Death Sentence The night I learned that I was going to die, I was wearing my mother's necklace. Anastasia Morozova. A name that had suddenly become a death sentence. I had spent twenty-two years believing that the worst thing that could happen to me was losing the people I loved. Sometimes, the people who promise to protect you are the very ones who lead you toward the edge of a grave. And sometimes, the man who comes to destroy your life becomes the one person you cannot imagine living without. I knew only fear. And the name of the man who had come to end my life. Damian Volkov. Snow covered the streets of Murmansk, turning the city into a frozen painting. From the windows of our mansion, everything looked peaceful. Expensive cars stood outside the gates, servants moved through the corridors, and music floated from the ballroom where my father's guests were celebrating. Yet something felt terribly wrong. For weeks, my father had been acting strangely. He spent hours locked inside his study, took secret phone calls in the middle of the night, and dismissed his guards whenever I tried to ask questions. Yesterday, I had finally confronted him. "Papa, are we in trouble?" He had stared at me for a long time before forcing a smile. "No, sweetheart. Everything is fine." But his hands had been trembling. My father never trembled. That was when I realized he was lying. "Miss Anastasia?" I turned at the sound of our housekeeper's voice. "Your father wants you upstairs." "Did he say why?" She hesitated before answering. "No, dear. But you should go quickly." A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach. I thanked her and made my way upstairs, holding the delicate silver necklace around my throat. It was the only thing my mother had left me before she died. At least, that was what my father had always told me. I was passing his study when I heard a man's voice from inside. "Your time is over, Mikhail." I froze. Mikhail Morozov was my father. And whoever was speaking to him sounded like a man who had never learned to fear anyone. "You have no idea what you're asking me to do," my father replied. "I know exactly what I'm asking." Silence followed. Then the stranger spoke again. "Give me the truth, and your daughter might survive the night." My heart stopped. The glass in my hand slipped and shattered against the marble floor. For a moment, nobody moved. Then my father's voice rang through the room. "Who's there?" The door opened. My father stood before me, his face pale. "Anastasia?" He seized my shoulders. "What are you doing here?" "Papa, who is inside?" "Go to your room." "What did he mean when he said I might survive the night?" His expression changed. "Listen to me carefully. You need to leave this house." "Why?" "Because I said so!" He had never raised his voice at me like that before. I stepped back, frightened by the desperation in his eyes. Then someone appeared behind him. A tall man dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit stood in the doorway. His dark hair was brushed back, and a faint scar traced the edge of his jaw. His face was handsome in a severe, almost intimidating way. But it was his eyes that caught my attention. Icy grey. Cold enough to make me forget how to breathe. He looked at my father before allowing his gaze to settle on me. For a brief moment, he seemed surprised. His eyes dropped to the necklace around my throat. Something flickered across his expression. Recognition. "You should have kept her away from this," he said. My father immediately stepped in front of me. "She has nothing to do with it." "That stopped being true a long time ago." "She's innocent." The stranger's mouth curved into a humorless smile. "Innocence doesn't change blood." I stared at him. "Who are you?" His gaze returned to mine. "Damian Volkov." The name sent a chill down my spine. Everyone in Murmansk knew the Volkov family. They controlled businesses that respectable people pretended not to know about, and their enemies rarely lived long enough to regret crossing them. Damian was the heir to that empire. Some called him the Devil of the North. Others called him the man who had no heart. I had never imagined meeting him in my father's house. And I certainly hadn't imagined him looking at me as if he already knew how I was going to die. "Papa," I whispered, "what is he doing here?" My father didn't answer. Damian reached inside his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. "Your daughter has been named in a death order." I blinked. "What?" "Someone has ordered your death, Anastasia." For a few seconds, I couldn't understand the words. Then the meaning struck me. I shook my head, taking a step backward. "That's impossible." "Is it?" I looked at my father. "Tell him he's wrong." He remained silent. "Papa?" His eyes filled with a pain I had never seen before. And suddenly, I understood. He knew. My own father had known that someone wanted me dead. "How long?" I whispered. "Anastasia—" "How long have you known?" He reached for me, but I pulled away. "You let me walk around this house as if everything were normal. You let me smile at people who might be waiting for the right moment to kill me!" "I was trying to protect you." "From whom?" Neither man answered. I turned toward Damian. "Is it you?" He tilted his head slightly. "Does it matter?" "Of course it matters!" My voice echoed through the hallway. "You're standing in my house telling me someone wants me dead. How am I supposed to know you aren't the one who ordered it?" For the first time, he looked almost amused. "You have courage." "I have questions." "Questions can get you killed." "So can trusting the wrong person." The amusement disappeared from his face. For a moment, something passed between us—something sharp and strange that I couldn't explain. Then Damian stepped closer. "Your father has until midnight to tell me the truth." "And if he doesn't?" His eyes held mine. "Then I stop protecting you." I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "Protecting me? You just told me someone wants me dead!" "Someone who knows your father's movements. Someone who can get past his security. Someone who may already be downstairs, drinking champagne and pretending to be his friend." My gaze shifted toward the staircase. The laughter coming from the ballroom suddenly sounded sinister. Damian continued. "Your father knows why you're being targeted. Until he tells me, neither you nor he is safe." I turned toward my father. "Tell me what's happening." He lowered his head. "Please, Papa." For a moment, I was a little girl again, standing beside him in the garden and asking him to promise that nothing bad would ever happen to me. He had always promised. Now he couldn't even look me in the eyes. "Your mother," he whispered. I went still. "What about Mama?" Damian's expression hardened. My father swallowed. "She didn't die the way I told you." The hallway seemed to tilt. My mother had died when I was seven. According to my father, she had been killed in a terrible car accident on a rainy night. I remembered the flowers at her funeral. I remembered crying until I couldn't breathe. And I remembered my father telling me that she was gone forever. "You told me she died in an accident," I whispered. "I know." "Was that a lie?" He closed his eyes. That was answer enough. Before I could demand an explanation, a gunshot exploded from downstairs. A woman screamed. The lights went out. My father grabbed my wrist. "Run!" But Damian moved faster. He caught my arm and pulled me against him just as another gunshot shattered the window at the end of the corridor. Glass scattered across the floor. I cried out, instinctively clutching his jacket. His arm tightened around my waist as he pulled me behind a stone pillar. "Stay down," he ordered. "My father!" "My men are getting him out." "How do I know I can trust your men?" "You can't." I stared at him. He looked down at me, his jaw clenched. "But tonight, I'm the only man standing between you and a bullet." Another shot rang through the mansion. Damian drew his gun. The movement was so quick, so practiced, that I realized this wasn't the first time he had faced a situation like this. He wasn't frightened. He was furious. And somehow, that frightened me more. He turned toward the staircase, then looked back at me. "Can you walk?" I nodded, although my knees felt weak. "Good. Stay close to me, and whatever you hear, don't let go of my hand." I stared at the hand he offered. I should have refused. I should have run away from the man who had walked into my home and turned my entire world upside down. Instead, I placed my trembling fingers in his. His hand closed around mine. Warm. Firm. Unexpectedly gentle. He led me toward the back staircase while the sounds of gunfire echoed through the mansion. I could barely keep up with his long strides. "Where are you taking me?" I asked. "Somewhere they can't reach you." "Why?" He stopped so suddenly that I nearly collided with him. For the first time that night, his expression changed completely. The coldness remained, but beneath it was something darker. Something almost personal. "Because, Anastasia, the person who ordered your death isn't the only one who wants you." My blood ran cold. "What does that mean?" He didn't answer. Instead, he opened a concealed door and motioned for me to enter. Beyond it was a narrow passage leading toward the garage. Before I stepped inside, I turned to face him. "Tell me the truth. Why are you helping me?" Damian stared at me for a long moment. Then his eyes dropped to my necklace again. When he looked back at me, his voice was quieter. "Because your mother once saved my life." I forgot how to breathe. "My mother?" He nodded once. "And because if I leave you here tonight, you'll be dead before sunrise." He took my hand again. I followed him into the darkness. I didn't know where he was taking me. I didn't know whether my father was alive, whether my mother's death had been a lie, or why Damian Volkov seemed to know more about my family than I did. I knew only one thing. The man who had been ordered to kill me had just become my only hope of survival. And as his car disappeared into the snowy streets of Murmansk, I heard him speak into his phone. "Prepare the house. No one enters without my permission." A pause. Then his next words shattered the last piece of hope I had left. "She's coming with me. And from tonight onward, Anastasia Morozova belongs under my protection." He ended the call and looked at me. I pressed myself against the opposite door, clutching my mother's necklace. "You're not going to hurt me, are you?" For a moment, he said nothing. Then he leaned slightly toward me, his grey eyes unreadable. "That depends on what your father has hidden from me." I turned toward the window, fighting the tears burning behind my eyes. I hated him. I feared him. And I had never felt so helpless in my entire life. But what I didn't know was that Damian Volkov had been given one final instruction. One that he had never intended to tell me. If Anastasia discovered the truth about her mother's death, he was to kill her himself.