“Don’t get too comfortable,” he murmured, silk laced with steel, a dark caress that made my pulse stutter. “I’m only here because I have no choice... and because you remind me of someone I once loved. But don’t delude yourself—you’ll never measure up.”
My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms, grounding the fire he ignited.
He slid the ring onto my finger slowly, as though marking territory. The cold metal pressed against my skin.
“Never forget your place,” he whispered, low and dangerous, the ghost of judgment lingering in his tone. “No one could ever replace her... not even you.”
I lifted my chin, eyes burning. “Then don’t waste your breath comparing me to ghosts, Dmitri,” I spat, venom threading through my calm. “It’s only three months—and I’ll survive every second of it without being anyone but myself.”
For a fraction of a heartbeat, his eyes blazed—something hot, almost feral—before the mask of control slid back into place.
I reached for his hand, fingers trembling despite my efforts to appear composed, and slid the band onto his finger. His grip didn’t waver. Mine did.
The priest’s voice rose, a thin thread of ritual cutting through the tension.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I braced myself, expecting a ceremonious brush of lips. Instead, Dmitri’s hand snapped to my waist, hard and possessive, pulling me against him so violently I gasped. My cheek brushed against his chest, his heartbeat thrumming like a warning.
He leaned closer, lips brushing my ear, his breath warm and unsettling.
“I won’t kiss you, Pen,” he said, voice low, rough, edged with something I couldn’t name. “The only woman who deserves my lips is six feet under.”
The words slashed through the hollow expectations of the ceremony. My pulse raced, half in fear, half in defiance.
Then, with chilling calm, he released me, stepping back.
His hand lingered just a fraction too long near mine before sliding away. He gestured curtly to the priest, his eyes cold steel over the crowd.
“Wrap it up,” he commanded.
The priest obeyed, but the air between us had already changed. This was no celebration—it was a warning. A game in which I knew the stakes, yet the rules were entirely his, and every move he made reminded me how little I truly mattered.
The twenty witnesses shifted in their seats like live coals.
A few exchanged uneasy glances. One older woman, sharp-featured, actually looked relieved. Most looked stunned, as if the infamous Dmitri Volkov had somehow married a nobody in a hushed ceremony, no fanfare, no spectacle—nothing.
Giovanni clapped once, loud in the awkward silence. Others followed with scattered, hesitant applause, like a flock of birds startled into motion.
Dmitri took my hand—firm, impersonal—and led me through a side exit. A black Rolls waited, sleek and menacing in the courtyard light.
I glanced back. Giovanni was already shepherding Vanya out a separate door, my son’s small hand trusting in his without hesitation. Only then did I allow myself to exhale.
When we reached the Rolls-Royce, he stepped in without so much as a glance my way, as if I were the one who had demanded this marriage. In reality, he had been the one desperately begging me into this farce of a three-month arrangement.
I climbed in anyway, letting the door shut behind me with a heavy, satisfying thunk.
The engine purred—a predator stretching its limbs.
He gripped the wheel so hard that his knuckles blanched, veins standing out like taut cables beneath the skin. Every motion radiated control, precision, and barely contained fury.
Then the car shot forward. Faster than necessary.
“It’s just three months,” I said quietly, trying to anchor myself, trying to inject reason into the madness.
I watched the lake blur past like molten silver. “You begged me for this, remember? And yet here you are... looking like you might strangle someone. Funny, how desperate men change when they get what they want.”
No answer.
