He listens about the baby, the bakery—which is opening in a month—and anything and everything I want.
It’s weird how safe I feel now.
How much I’ve started to trust the quiet between us.
Italy has helped with that. The air here feels different. The villa Ben rented sits on a hill surrounded by lemon trees and olive groves, and from my window, I can see the sea—blue and endless and full of promise.
We’ve been here a week, and today, I become Mrs. Volkov.
It’s not a huge wedding.
Ben offered to fly anyone I wanted over, but my grandmother insisted I go without her. Said she wanted us to enjoy ourselves, that she’d be waiting at home with cake and gossip when we got back.
So it’s just us.
Me, Benedikt, and Artem lurking somewhere outside and pretending he’s not guarding the place.
My dress hangs on the back of the door—simple and off-white, with lace sleeves I didn’t know I’d love until I saw them. My hair’s done with loose curls pinned up. I’m supposed to be finishing my makeup, but instead, I’m pacing the floor in bare feet, holding my small, rounded stomach with both hands.
I’m nervous.
Excited.
Terrified.
All of it, tangled together.
A knock at the door breaks the quiet. It’s soft at first, almost hesitant.
“Princess?”
Ben.
I smile. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m not in there,” he counters through the door. “That was the compromise. Traditional… ish.”
I roll my eyes, moving closer but maintaining the barrier between us. “What do you want?”
“You ready?”
“Almost.”
A pause.
Then, “How almost?”
“Half almost.”
He sighs—a long, deep exhale that carries the kind of impatience only Benedikt Volkov can pull off. “You’ve been getting ready for two hours.”
“It takes time to look this good.”
“You always look good.”
“You’re trying to charm me before the ceremony, Volkov? I’m trying to get ready.”
“I’m trying to remind my future wife that I’m not a patient man.”
