I held him tighter, feeling the heat of his anger, the intensity of his loyalty, and the fierce, unspoken bond between us.
In that moment, nothing else existed—the groom at the altar, the bride’s flowing train, the congregation—all meaningless against the gravity of our shared grief, our love, and our survival.
From the altar came Seraphina’s delicate, triumphant “Yes,” floating through the microphone like birdsong, brittle and rehearsed.
The priest’s smile widened, as if savoring the performance. “The rings, please.”
A black velvet box appeared like a jewel in a theater of power.
Inside lay a ring so extravagant it could bankrupt nations: a platinum band cradling a flawless 12-carat Asscher-cut diamond, flanked by tapering baguettes, cold, gleaming, perfect.
My chest tightened.
I remembered my own wedding: Dmitri sliding a plain white-gold band onto my finger with all the tenderness of locking a collar. I had wept then—not for the ring, not even for love—but for him.
Dmitri lifted the new ring, his wrist steady, but his hand trembled imperceptibly.
Seraphina extended her manicured hand, gleaming with anticipation, a fragile emblem of victory.
His right fist clenched at his side. Unclenched. Clenched again.
The first fissure in his stoic façade.
He raised the ring toward her finger.
And then—Seraphina swayed.
At first, it was almost graceful, a delicate flicker of the knees. Then her body folded like origami, the diamond tiara slipping sideways, catching strands of her platinum hair.
A strangled, wet gasp tore from her throat as she pitched forward, twelve feet of silk train tangling around her ankles like a shroud of snow.
Time slowed.
Dmitri did not move. Not a muscle. Not a step. His eyes, storm-grey and sharp, narrowed—not concern, but calculation, a predator observing the unexpected.
Bridesmaids shrieked, racing forward like startled birds. They caught her inches from the marble, flailing, trapped in the folds of her couture nightmare.
The Orlov patriarch exploded from his seat, his face purple with rage and terror. “Doctor! Get the damn doctor NOW!”
A man in charcoal—the Orlov family physician—vaulted two pews with the agility of a trained operative and landed beside her. His fingers flew to her carotid, then fumbled with the emergency kit, ripping it open, instruments clattering.
Vanya clutched my hand, small and taut, his dark curls brushing my wrist. His eyes were wide with fear, a mirror of the chaos erupting at the altar.
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering. Good. Let the empire tremble. Let the golden bride fall. Let this perfect facade crack.
My son’s small voice whispered against the roar in my ears. “Mom... what’s happening?”
I tightened my grip around him, drawing him close. “Something went wrong, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Just... watch.”
“Pulse 180, thready. BP 238 over 148 and climbing—she’s in malignant hypertensive crisis with probable acute catecholamine surge. Pupils sluggish, possible sympathomimetic toxidrome—cyanide or amphetamine derivative. We need nitroprusside and ICU now, or she strokes out in minutes!” the Orlov physician barked, his voice ricocheting through the wedding hall.
The word toxidrome detonated in my chest like a second bomb.
Whispers hissed through the cathedral, sliding between the pews like venomous snakes:
“Delicate little thing—always knew she was too fragile for this world. At least she’s actually beautiful, not like that fat American cow Dmitri married.”
“This alliance would have locked the entire Lake Como for a generation. Someone obviously didn’t want peace—probably the Morozovs.”
