Mikhail's POV
The Dragunov palace was quiet at this hour.
Snow drifted slowly beyond the tall windows, settling over the sprawling estate like a silent veil. From the height of the palace tower, the East Wing and West Wing stretched outward in two opposing directions, their lights glowing faintly in the winter night.
The empire slept.
But Mikhail Dragunov did not.
Inside his private chamber, the only light came from the fireplace and the tall antique mirror standing across the room.
It had been there long before he inherited the palace.
Long before the empire hardened him.
Mikhail stood before it now, one hand resting loosely in the pocket of his trousers, his expression calm and unreadable.
The reflection staring back at him was the man the world feared.
Cold.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
But tonight the mirror felt different.
Tonight… it reminded him of someone else.
Someone he used to be.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
And the past rose to meet him.
In his mid-twenties, Mikhail Dragunov had been a storm.
Money meant nothing.
Rules meant less.
The Dragunov name had opened every door in Europe, but he rarely bothered knocking.
If a door stood in his way…
He kicked it down.
Those were the years when St. Petersburg whispered about the Dragunov cousins.
Mikhail and Nikolai.
Chaos in expensive suits.
Nikolai had once laughed during a party in Monaco and raised a glass toward him.
"If the world ends tonight," he had said, "at least we spent it properly."
They had been reckless then.
Private jets.
Yachts drifting across the Mediterranean.
Nights that blurred into mornings.
And women who mistook danger for charm.
Mikhail allowed himself a faint smile at the memory.
Yes.
He had been a bad man.
Truthfully…
He still was.
But the mirror did not show him the parties.
It showed him her.
Aurélie Delacroix.
He remembered the first night he saw her.
Not in Russia.
Not even in Paris.
It had been at a private gala along the French Riviera.
A room filled with aristocrats, investors, and people who believed money made them powerful.
Mikhail had been bored.
Utterly bored.
Until he noticed the woman standing near the balcony.
She wore a dark wine dress that moved like liquid shadow when she walked. Her hair fell across one shoulder, and her posture carried the effortless confidence of someone who understood exactly how dangerous she was.
Aurélie did not chase attention.
She allowed it to orbit her.
Mikhail remembered approaching her slowly, curious despite himself.
She had glanced at him once.
Then returned her gaze to the sea outside.
"You look bored," she said.
Her voice carried the smooth, melodic edge of a French accent.
Mikhail smirked slightly.
"I usually am."
Aurélie's lips curved faintly.
"Then perhaps you're in the wrong room."
That was the moment he realized something important.
Aurélie Delacroix was not intimidated by power.
She challenged it.
And that intrigued him more than he cared to admit.
Their relationship had never been peaceful.
It had been fire.
Champagne on midnight balconies.
Arguments that ended with laughter.
Long drives along empty highways at impossible speeds.
Aurélie had loved the chaos inside him.
And Mikhail had loved the fact that she never tried to tame it.
Loving her had been reckless.
That was exactly why he had done it.
The mirror flickered again as another memory surfaced.
This time it included someone else.
Nikolai.
The Scorpion.
Mikhail remembered one evening in Paris when the three of them had stood together outside a restaurant, the city lights stretching endlessly beyond the river.
Nikolai had watched Aurélie for a moment.
Not possessively.
Just thoughtfully.
He had noticed her.
But Nikolai had never interfered.
Instead, sometime later, he began seeing Mirela.
Aurélie's closest friend.
Mirela had been very different.
Sharp-tongued.
Fiery.
Unpredictable.
The kind of woman who did not care whether powerful men approved of her.
For a brief moment, Mikhail's reflection darkened slightly.
Mirela had reminded him of someone.
Someone who now walks through the halls of this palace with the same quiet strength.
Maria Romanova.
Women like that didn't follow storms.
They created their own.
Perhaps that was why Nikolai admired Maria more than he admitted.
The memory faded.
The mirror returned to the present.
Mikhail stared at his reflection again.
But now the room felt colder.
Aurélie's face lingered in his thoughts.
Not the girl from the Riviera.
The woman from yesterday.
The one who had kissed him under the watchful eyes of the media.
And then broadcast it to the world.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Aurélie had once been tempted.
Now she might be something far more dangerous.
But it wasn't Aurélie who unsettled him tonight.
It was Maria.
He had expected anger.
Jealousy.
Emotion.
Instead, she had done something unexpected.
She investigated.
Her calm reaction inside the library still echoed in his mind.
The photograph.
Aurélie's mother is standing beside her own.
The year 2006.
Maria Romanova had not reacted like a threatened wife.
She had reacted like a strategist.
And for the first time in years…
Mikhail felt something unfamiliar.
Curiosity.
Perhaps even caution.
He studied his reflection carefully.
Once, Aurélie had loved the storm inside him.
Now Maria seemed determined to understand it.
The difference between those two things might change everything.
Mikhail exhaled slowly and stepped away from the mirror.
Behind him, the palace chamber remained silent.
Outside the windows, the snow continued to fall over the Dragunov estate.
The East Wing.
The West Wing.
The gardens.
All of it belonged to him.
An empire built on power, loyalty, and secrets.
But one thought lingered in his mind as he crossed the room.
Aurélie had returned with a kiss.
Maria had answered with silence.
And that silence felt far more dangerous.
Somewhere inside the palace, the game had already begun.
And for the first time in years…
Mikhail Dragunov was not entirely certain who controlled the board.