When it’s done, I drop him on the cold cement floor.
I’m panting—not from exertion, but from holding myself back.
My blade is tucked back in my belt, blood dripping from it, and my hands are painted in the proof of my vengeance.
Michail steps forward silently, offering me a towel.
I take it, and I take my blade from my belt and clean it.
Then, I wipe the blood from my fingers.
“Get rid of the bodies,” I say, voice steel. “And tell everyone what happens when they step out of line.”
He nods once.
Because that’s how it works.
There are rules.
And then there are consequences.
I sheathe the knife and glance at the watch on my wrist.
Time to shower and get back to her.
Because tonight, she becomes my wife.
And the whole damn world better understand—Cecilia Stavros is off fucking limits. Forever.
Chapter Seventeen-Cecilia
The ramp to the yacht is lined with flickering lanterns, their flames barely dancing in the sea breeze.
Everything smells like salt and lemon blossoms.
Somewhere below deck, the engine hums—a reminder that this floating palace is ready to whisk us away the second Atlas gives the word.
And I’m walking onto it like I’m not about to make the most reckless, surreal decision of my life.
I’m wearing a dress my mother would love—did love, actually, when I tried it on when we went shopping.
To think that was just days ago.
Anyway, it’s really stunning, and it flatters my tall-ish, fuller figure.
Layers of gauzy silk in a shade she called dusty rose. It clings in places I don’t mind and flows in others, giving me the illusion of effortlessness I most definitely do not feel.
It’s beautiful.
It’s soft.
But it’s not a wedding dress.
Not the one I imagined as a girl, anyway.
No train. No veil. No aisle to walk down with a tearful father at my side and a bouquet clenched in my shaking hands.
Just this dress, this yacht, and a man who looks at me like I’m something he wants to own or consume, maybe.
