Dressmakers invade the guest suite. Pins scratch my skin. Tape measures snap.Turn. Lift. Hold still.I’m a mannequin being draped in silk and lace. I am being packaged for consumption.
I can’t find a foothold. The world is spinning too fast.
I find Galina in the sunroom. It’s the only place the chaos hasn't touched. I sit staring at my hands while she chatters happily about the flower arrangements.
“I always knew,” she says, beaming at the garden. “From the moment you walked in,dochka. You and Igor… it is fate. Two souls perfectly matched. I have never seen him so determined. He will make you so happy.”
The guilt twists in my gut like a knife. I hate lying. I hate that she thinks this is a fairy tale when it’s just a merger. “Galina,” I interrupt, my voice trembling. “I… I have to tell you. I don't love him.”
She doesn't gasp. His grandmother doesn't frown. She turns that sharp gaze on me and smiles, completely unbothered.
“You will.” She pats my hand. “Love is a luxury. Respect. Compatibility. These are the stones you build a house on. Love is the ivy that grows later.”
“It feels wrong.”
“Nonsense. You have fire. He has ice. You balance the scales.” Her grip tightens on my fingers. “I see how he looks at you. The love will come. And when it does, it will be dangerous.”
Igor is a ghost.
He comes home long after everyone is asleep. He’s gone before the sun comes up. When we have to be in the same room for the lawyers, he stands by the window, staring out, speaking in monosyllables. The distance chafes. After the heat in his study, the ice is worse. It’s a cold rejection.
Two nights before the wedding, I step in front of him in the hallway. “Why are you ignoring me?” My voice rises. “You forced this. And now you won’t look at me?”
He stops. He looks down at me, his eyes hooded. “Is that what you want?” he murmurs. “You want me to stop ignoring you?”
“Yes. I—” He doesn't let me finish. His hand tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck, and he crashes his mouth down on mine. It’s not a kiss. It’s an ambush.
He devours me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting of coffee and dark desire. I stumble back, hitting the wall, and he presses into me, his hips grinding against mine. His hands roam wild—down my back, gripping my waist, then sliding up under the hem of my scrub top. Rough calloused palms find the bare skin of my stomach. I gasp into his mouth. His fingers skim higher, pushing up the bra, cupping my breast. His thumb grazes the nipple, sending a bolt of lightning straight to my core.
“Igor,” I pant, panic warring with the pleasure. “Stop—wait—”
He freezes.
His hand is still on my breast, his heart hammering against my chest. He pulls back slowly, his eyes black, blown wide with a hunger that terrifies me. He smooths my shirt down, his hands lingering for a second too long. “That,” he says, his voice a wrecked growl, “is why I stay away. Because next time, I won't stop.”
He steps back, running a hand through his hair. “Enjoy the reprieve, Aria. As for right now, I have business to finish and a hard cock to finish off in the shower like a fucking school boy. So excuse me if I stay away.”
He turns on his heel and walks down the hall.
I’m left shivering in the drafty corridor, skin flushed, knees shaking, watching him go.
Then, the day arrives. No church. No aisle. Just the library, the staff, and Galina in her wheelchair. The lace of my dressscratches my neck. Igor stands next to me in charcoal gray, a wall of stone. We say the vows. I sign the paper. The ring slides back onto my finger. Heavier this time. Permanent.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The words fall like a gavel strike.
Aria
Thedinnerblursintoa haze of clinking silverware and low voices. Then, the staff disappears. The heavy oak doors close behind Galina’s wheelchair, cutting off her blown kiss.
Silence descends.
Igor’s fingers lace through mine—warm, rough, absolute. He doesn’t pull, just guides me up the stairs. Not to my room. To his.
The double doors click shut, sealing the cavernous master suite. The air here is different—still, charged, smelling of leather and the night air clinging to his suit. When he faces me, the aloofness of the last week is gone, burned away by a dark, predatory focus that makes the breath hitch in my throat.
“There are traditions to observe,” he says while striding across the room to open a heavy oak cabinet. Glass glints under the low light—rows of crystal and decanters etched with a double-headed eagle. Crimson wine splashes into a single ornate silver cup.
