The idea of a “date night” in the Volkov fortress was inherently absurd. It wasn't just the sheer logistics of preparing a meal behind several metric tons of reinforced steel; it was the psychological dissonance of trying to foster candlelight romance with a man who could, and often did, sign a death warrant between sips of wine. Yet, here we were.

I stood in the dressing room, smoothing the silk of a simple, deep-ruby dress. I hadn't worn anything that wasn’t a suit or a silk robe in ...