“I thought I’d marry for love,” I say, voice low. “What does it make me that I’m doing this for money?”
She doesn’t answer right away. “It makes you a businesswoman. Besides, love can grow where you least expect it.”
The mansion doors open, winter air biting against my exposed skin. The waiting car looks like it costs more than my entire life. A driver holds the back door open and I fold into rich leather, silk and lace pooling around my knees.
The drive is short, down the tree-lined road to the small Orthodox chapel nestled among dark pines. Snow dusts the roof. The golden domes gleam like distant stars trying to break through clouds.
No guests. No music. No family.
I’ve never really had one of those anyway.
Sophia sits beside me, hands folded over her belly, a reminder of where this all leads.
Of the baby I will grow. And then… hand over.
Panic flares. My vision blurs for a second.
I force myself to inhale deep and slow.
This is for a better future. This will give you everything you never had. It’s only fifteen months. Women are surrogates all the time.
The lies I tell myself taste like copper and something bitter and sharp.
The door opens again.
And Vitali is there.
Dark suit. Darker eyes. He looks at me like he could crush the world in his hand if it touched me wrong.
My pulse kicks into a sprint, and I wonder if it’s fear or anticipation.
He offers his arm. “Ready?”
“No,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His jaw flexes. For a moment, I think he’ll force me forward anyway, but instead he leans down, just enough that his breath warms the shell of my ear.
“You don’t need to be ready,” he murmurs. “You only need to be mine.”
My heart stutters. Betrays me.
Sophia gives me a tiny encouraging nod, and I place my hand in his.
It fits.
He leads me up the chapel steps, my heels clumsy on ancient stone. The priest stands waiting, face unreadable, probably used to strange unions arranged by powerful men.
I try not to tremble, but the closer we get to the altar, the more my ribcage tightens.
Fifteen months, I remind myself. One baby. And then freedom to figure out who I am.
Vitali’s fingers tighten slightly around mine. Possessive. Anchoring.
As the priest begins to speak, candlelight flickering over gold icons and shadowed walls, my gaze drifts up to Vitali’s profile.
He is carved from stone. Duty. Discipline. Ruthless intent. He looks just as formidable in the dark suit as he did entirely naked yesterday. The vision I’ve not been able to banish from my mind’s eye since.
And now, terrifyingly, he’s my husband.
