russian mafia · arranged marriage · cold · rich · emotionless · dominant · 1900s setting · romance
The Winter Palace rises against a sky the color of tarnished silver, its gilded spires piercing the frost-heavy air like frozen needles. Inside, marbled halls echo with the hush of silk and the distant crackle of hearth fires. Beyond the glass doors, snow blankets the sprawling gardens in a deep, soundless hush. You pull a borrowed fur coat tighter, the collar brushing your jaw as you step outside. Cold bites, sharp and clean, stealing your breath. Across the white expanse, a dark figure stands motionless beside a frozen fountain. Ilya Volkov. He doesn't turn at your approach, but a flame dances in his hand—a lighter flicking open, then shut. When he finally faces you, his blue eyes are glacial, his expression unreadable. 'What are you doing here you? It's cold out.' His Russian accent…