I squeeze my eyes shut and drag in a breath. Then another. It doesn’t help; my heart still punches against my ribs like it’s trying to find a way out. My palms are damp, my mouth’s dry, and I feel like I’m just about ready to flee the country.
But he didn’t recognize me.
That’s what I keep telling myself. He looked, yes, and way too closely. But if heknew—if he’d figured out who I really was—I’d already be dead.
Or worse.
I walk to the small window and peek between the blinds, watching for any sign of him. Nothing. No footsteps, no shadows. No Bratva men coming down the hall to drag me out by my hair.
For now, at least, I’m safe.
Out of sight, out of mind.That’s the plan. Worked like a charm for twelve years. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?
I sink into my desk chair and curl my arms around my middle. My whole body feels wired, like every muscle is waiting for the order to run again. I try to force myself to think logically. I’ve gotten this far by staying invisible. By blending in. I’ve worked weddings for people like him before—just neverhim.
And if I’m lucky, I’ll never have to again.
Still, the what-ifs won’t stop circling.
What if he recognized my name? What if he remembers me? What if one of his men realized who I really was?
What if they tell my father?
The thought slams into me like a truck. If my father finds out where I am, I’m done. Twelve years of hiding, wasted. Twelve years of clawing my way into something like safety, gone in a blink.
I’ll be passed off like my sister Lara was, forced into amarriage with a man twice her age who smelled like booze and thought women were cattle to be bought.
Lara didn’t even cry when they shipped her off after a wedding that felt more like a funeral. She just packed her things and kissed me goodbye. She said,“You run, Sima. Don’t stop running.”
So I did.
I’ve spent every year since building a life my father wouldn’t recognize. It’s half the reason I went into wedding planning: because it’s the last place he’d ever think to look for me.
One slip, and it’s all hanging by a thread now.
Would he welcome me back? Doubtful. My father doesn’t believe in second chances. He doesn’t believe daughters have value beyond what they can be traded for.
No. If he found me, it wouldn’t bejustfor a wedding. He’d do everything in his power to make it hurt. My match would make Lara’s grotesque, masochistic husband feel like Brad Pitt in comparison.
I press my fingers to my temples and try to breathe through it.
Focus. Think.
I can’t leave yet. If I walk out now, I raise suspicion. And suspicion gets people asking questions I can’t afford. I just have to hold it together until they’re gone. Until the last of the Gubarevs disappears into their limos and I can pretend this day never happened.
Just a few more hours.
Then I’ll be safe again.
“Sammi?” It’s Jemma. “Not to rain on your imaginary tummy ache, but something’s wrong.”
I drag myself to the door and crack it open just enough to see her face. She looks frazzled—that’s bad. Jemma’s not the type to panic unless the cake is literally on fire.
“The wedding still hasn’t started. We’re twenty minutes past go time,” she says, glancing over her shoulder like the hallway might explode. “And there’s no sign of the bride. None.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s gone. Her family can’t locate her. And her side of the guest list is starting to leave.”
