The late afternoon sun spilled a golden haze over Tesmee's backyard, bathing the world in a warmth she barely noticed. She sat curled into the corner of the outdoor couch, laptop balanced on her thighs, papers spread like a battlefield around her.
Whiskey, her loyal German Shepherd, lounged beside her, head resting against her leg. His steady breathing was the only sound accompanying the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against the keys.
Despite the peace, her mind was a whirlwind—business deals, territorial disputes, underground arrangements—all threading through her consciousness with merciless precision. Her world had no time for the beauty of the day.
The sharp trill of her phone shattered the fragile silence.
Tesmee's gaze flickered to the screen. She froze for a heartbeat.
Tyric.
A heavy sigh left her lips, sharp with annoyance. She answered, voice clipped with sarcastic politeness.
"How are you, Tyric?"
On the other end, Tyric's voice was laced with lazy amusement.
"It's a blissful day—definitely a good day to wipe out a whole bloodline," he drawled.
Tesmee rolled her eyes skyward, unimpressed. She cleared her throat before responding, her tone dry as dust.
"How are you, Tyric?"
Tyric chuckled, the smirk practically audible through the phone.
"You're something else. Was it really that hard to tell me about the incident?"
Tesmee's jaw tightened. Defiance edged her voice.
"And who exactly told you, Mr. Volkov?"
His amusement evaporated instantly. His tone dropped to a dangerous low.
"Don't answer my question with your question, Tesmee."
She leaned back, the leather of the couch creaking beneath her. Her words dripped nonchalance.
"I didn't see the use. It wasn't anything serious... Just the Hales' stupid youngest son."
But before she could finish, Tyric's sharp voice cut across the line.
"A bullet is a bullet. It doesn't change its nature depending on the hand that fires it. It kills, Tesmee."
His words, blunt and cold, hung heavy between them. A reminder. A warning.
Tesmee exhaled sharply, brushing a hand through her dark hair.
"I don't need the sermon, Tyric. I'm not the type to die that easily."
Tyric's laugh, low and rough, rumbled through the speaker.
"I didn't call to preach, madam. Actually... I sent you something. It might arrive later today."
A brief pause. Then, teasingly:
"All I ask is—wear a dress. Any type. Not commanding... merely requesting."
Tesmee snorted, her rare laughter mingling with his.
"I'll see what I can do. But don't expect me to be strutting around in heels and lace just yet. My current state doesn't allow for sexy dramatics."
For a fleeting second, the heaviness lifted—replaced by the easy, familiar banter they only shared in stolen moments.
But the shadows lurking behind their words never truly disappeared.
The call ended. Tesmee's steel-gray eyes fell back to her laptop as though nothing had happened, as though the conversation hadn't stirred the fragile ground she stood on.
Whiskey shifted closer, sensing the subtle change in her mood.
The sun sank lower, washing the world in molten gold. The only sounds now were the brisk tapping of keys, the rustle of pages... and the silent ticking of an unseen clock winding toward inevitable war.
Across oceans and continents, at the heart of Volkov territory, Tyric sat on the velvet expanse of his bedroom, papers and ledgers sprawled before him.
Elizabeth, his wife—his light in the endless dark—sat beside him, her emerald green eyes sparkling with mischief.
Without warning, she reached out, gently prying his hands away from the laptop.
"Enough work," she said softly.
Tyric's rigid frame relaxed immediately under her touch, his hardened features softening into something achingly tender.
He chuckled, voice low. "What is it, mommy?"
Elizabeth beamed and, from her back pocket, pulled a small black box wrapped with a delicate ribbon.
"Open it," she whispered.
Curious, Tyric untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
His entire body froze.
Inside lay a single, undeniable truth—a positive pregnancy test.
For a long, breathless moment, time stood still. Then, without warning, a wild, unrestrained joy tore through him.
A broken laugh escaped his throat. Tears blurred his vision as he sprang to his feet, lifting Elizabeth high into the air, spinning her around like a man reborn.
His usual cold, ruthless demeanor shattered, replaced by the ecstatic, boyish excitement of a man who had finally been given a reason to believe in something pure.
Elizabeth laughed, her voice a melody of love and hope, as Tyric jumped around the room with reckless abandon, his arms flailing, his smile impossibly wide.
In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
There was only them. And the future they had unknowingly begun to build.
Back at Tesmee's estate, the day's light surrendered to twilight.
At precisely 16:00, the front gates opened to reveal two men in tailored black suits, moving with the precision of seasoned operatives.
Her guards watched them closely but made no move to interfere.
The men approached Tesmee's door with measured steps, the tap of their shoes muted against polished floors. Without speaking, they presented a black envelope wrapped in a blood-red ribbon.
She didn't rise to greet them. She didn't need to.
The men bowed their heads slightly, placing the envelope neatly on the table before retreating the way they came, vanishing into the growing dusk.
Tesmee's fingers brushed the envelope lightly. She unwrapped the ribbon with a surgeon's patience, unfolding the heavy paper inside.
Her gaze skimmed the contents.
One line stood out in stark, unmistakable ink:
"You are summoned."
A meeting. Moscow. 21:00. Tomorrow night.
The underground council. Volkov territory.
Her steel-gray eyes narrowed. Her chest tightened.
This wasn't just a meeting.
It was a message.
A binding.
She was no longer a mere ally to the Volkov Syndicate.
She was one of them now.
Their wars were her wars.
Their enemies were now hers to bleed.
A bitter smile curled at the corner of her lips.
She rose from the couch, the envelope slipping from her hand onto the table. It lay there, stark against the twilight shadows like a death sentence sealed with silk and steel.
War was coming.
And Tesmee Michaelson was ready...