THE DISGRACED HUSBAND IS A HIDDEN PRINCE

Chapter Five

Chapter Five: The Witness & The Photo

Alexander Petrov’s POV

Alexander had been tracking Viktor’s movements for six months. Every meeting. Every transaction. Every fucking breath the bastard took, Alexander knew about it.

So when Katerina pinged him that Viktor was heading to the Northern Bank—the one his uncle used to launder money through shell corporations—Alexander knew he had to see this for himself.

He arrived at the bank fifteen minutes before Viktor did. Blended into the crowd. Just another customer.

The bank was busy. Marble floors. High ceilings. The kind of place where money whispered instead of talked.

Alexander stood near the back, pretending to fill out a deposit slip. His eyes tracked Viktor the moment he walked through the door.

Viktor moved with confidence. Expensive suit. Expensive watch. The kind of man who’d never been told ‘no’ in his entire privileged life. He headed straight for the private banking section.

Alexander kept his distance. Watched. Waited.

That’s when the first man burst through the door.

Armed. Masked. Gun drawn.

“EVERYONE DOWN!”

Three more men followed. Professional. Military precision. This wasn’t some random robbery—this was a fucking heist.

The entire bank dropped to the floor. Screaming. Panic.

Alexander didn’t move at first. His training kicked in before his brain caught up. He assessed the situation in seconds. Four armed men. Assault rifles. Body armor. They knew what they were doing.

His eyes flicked to Viktor, who was on his knees now, hands up, face pale. The confidence had evaporated. He looked terrified.

Good.

One of the robbers grabbed a woman near Alexander. She screamed.

And Alexander moved.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. His body just… moved.

First robber—disarmed in two moves. The rifle clattered to the floor before the guy even realized what was happening.

Second robber rushed him. Alexander’s elbow connected with his throat. The man went down, choking.

Third robber raised his gun. Fired.

Alexander dodged.

Impossible speed. The kind of speed that came from twelve years of Valdorian royal guard training. The kind of speed that came from surviving a coup at sixteen.

He closed the distance. Disarmed the third robber with military precision. The gun hit the floor. The robber’s face hit the marble a second later.

Fourth robber saw his team go down and ran.

Alexander straightened his jacket. Calm. Like nothing had happened.

The entire bank was silent.

And Viktor Romanov was staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost.

Alexander’s eyes locked with Viktor’s across the room. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t blink. Just held that predatory gaze—the same one he’d given him at the gala.

Viktor’s face drained of color.

Because that wasn’t self-defense. That wasn’t luck.

That was combat training. Royal guard techniques. Valdorian style.

And Viktor knew it.

Alexander turned and walked out before the police arrived. Before anyone could ask questions. Before Viktor could process what he’d just witnessed.

But the damage was done.

That night, Viktor’s apartment

Viktor paced his living room, replaying the scene in his head over and over.

The refugee. The worthless son-in-law. The man they’d all mocked at the gala.

Had just taken down four armed robbers like it was nothing.

“That’s not a refugee,” Viktor muttered to himself. “That’s a fucking soldier.”

He grabbed his phone. Called his contact in his uncle’s network.

“I need background on Alexander Petrov. Everything.”

“We’ve been looking into him for months. There’s nothing—”

“LOOK HARDER!” Viktor’s voice cracked. “A refugee doesn’t move like that. A poor man doesn’t have that kind of training. Find out who the fuck he really is.”

He hung up. Poured himself a drink. His hands were shaking.

His phone buzzed.

Encrypted message.

Viktor’s blood ran cold when he saw the sender. Unknown. But the encryption pattern was one he recognized.

His uncle’s network.

He opened the message.

“The target has been confirmed alive. Identity verified. See attachment.”

Viktor’s hands shook as he opened the attachments.

Photo 1: A young boy—maybe sixteen—in royal regalia. Standing with a man and woman dressed like royalty. Valdorian state ceremony. The boy’s face was younger, cleaner, but those eyes…

Viktor knew those eyes.

Photo 2: Recent surveillance. Alexander at a warehouse, commanding a team. Screens glowing behind him. Military precision in every movement.

Photo 3: Wedding photo. Alexander and Isabella.

Caption: “Crown Prince Alexander Petrov of Valdoria. Presumed dead 12 years. Confirmed alive. Current location: Summers Estate. Married to Isabella Summers. Status: EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.”

Viktor’s phone slipped from his hand.

The refugee they’d mocked. The worthless husband. The man they’d treated like dirt.

Was a crown prince.

Flashbacks hit him like bullets:

Vivian: “You smell like a dead rat.”

Marcus: “Get a real job, even if it’s highway robbery.”

Viktor himself, smirking at the gala: “Isabella could fix that. I’m ready to marry her.”

And Alexander had just stood there. Watching. Listening. Remembering.

“Oh fuck.” Viktor’s voice cracked. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’d been tracking the Summers family for months. Courting Isabella. Trying to gain access to the Circle.

And Alexander had been tracking him right back.

For six months. Watching him dig his own grave.

The bank incident suddenly made sense. Alexander hadn’t just defended those people. He’d been showing Viktor. Demonstrating what he was capable of. What he’d been holding back.

Viktor grabbed his phone with shaking hands. Dialed his uncle.

“We have a problem. The Valdorian prince—he’s alive. And he’s been in the Summers family this whole time.”

“I know.” His uncle’s voice was calm. Too calm. “Why do you think I sent you there?”

Viktor’s blood turned to ice. “You KNEW? And you let me—”

“You were bait, Viktor. And you played your part perfectly. Now he knows we know. The game has begun.”

The line went dead.

Viktor stood in his apartment, staring at the photo of Crown Prince Alexander Petrov.

The man who’d let them insult him. Mock him. Humiliate him.

The man who was now going to destroy them all.