After the celebration, the ballroom empties in fits and starts—first the cautious Italians, then the boisterous Russians, and finally the stragglers who linger for free vodka or one last glimpse of the spectacle.
Even after the last toast, I keep Isabella close, parading her past every pair of eyes that ever dared to doubt me. Only when the lights begin to dim, the staff clearing away glasses and the string quartet packing up their instruments, do I finally lead her upstairs.
We climb the wide marble steps, my hand at her back, the dress rustling with every step. She never speaks. She never looks up. In the hush of the upper hall, away from the glitter and the crowd, her silence becomes almost suffocating, a living thing between us.
I open the door to our rooms. Not the grand bridal suite the world expects, but a smaller chamber, rich but spare. There’s only one lamp lit, its glow warm and low, washing gold over thewalls and catching in her hair as she stands, still as a painting, just inside the door.
For a long moment, I simply watch her. The lace of her dress bites into her shoulders, pearls gleaming like tiny shackles around her neck. Her hands are clenched in the folds of her skirt. In the quiet, she almost vibrates with tension—every muscle locked, breath shallow, her eyes fixed on some invisible point across the room.
She looks nothing like a blushing bride. She looks like a woman poised at the edge of a precipice, fighting the urge to leap.
I step closer, circling her slowly. I can feel the old hunger simmering beneath my skin—the urge to press, to test her boundaries, to see how far she’ll bend before she breaks. Something about the set of her jaw, the defiant line of her shoulders, holds me back. She’s not broken. Not yet.
“You wear fear beautifully,” I say at last, my voice soft but edged, the words meant to wound. As I say them, something inside me falters. There’s a flicker of… regret, fascination, I don’t know. She turns her head, and for the first time since the ceremony, she meets my gaze.
Her eyes are fathomless. Hatred and heartbreak, rage and grief, all tangled up together. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t lower her eyes. If I expected tears, I’m disappointed.
What I find in her stare is fiercer than anything I saw at the altar: the raw ache of betrayal, the certainty of loss, and beneath it all, the smallest glint of defiance. She is daring me to see her—not as a prize, not as a symbol, but as herself. Broken, burning, dangerous.
I take another step, reach for her chin, but she turns away before I can touch her. The movement is slight, but the message is clear. I may own her name, her body, her freedom—but not her will.
We stand in silence, the hush between us broken only by the distant murmur of the party dying downstairs. The old version of me—the one my father built, the one the Bratva fears—would press the advantage. Would remind her who rules here, would force her into compliance with a word, a look, a touch.
I don’t move. I just watch her, heart pounding for reasons I refuse to name. The memories of tonight flicker behind my eyes: the proud tilt of her head as she walked down the aisle, the way her hands trembled in mine, the fury that blazed up and never quite died. It was supposed to be a conquest. It was supposed to be simple.
What I feel now is anything but simple.
“I could make you fear me, you know,” I murmur, half to myself, the words unfamiliar, unsettling. “I could make you beg.” My voice is low, the threat automatic, but it feels hollow.
She doesn’t answer. Just watches me, unblinking, the hate in her eyes joined by something else—a sorrow so deep I almost step back.
For a moment, the room feels too small, the air thick with everything unsaid. I want to hurt her, and I want to comfort her, and I don’t understand how both can be true at once.
When I finally let myself breathe, I feel the shift. It’s small but seismic, a crack opening somewhere deep inside. This woman was supposed to be a weapon, forged for my victory.
Looking at her now, I wonder if she’s something else entirely—a fuse I’ve lit but can’t control.
“You’re my wife now,” I say, voice stripped of its earlier venom, as if saying it aloud will make it real. “Everything that was yours is mine. Your grief, your anger, your loyalty, your body.”
I wait for her to spit something back—an insult, a threat, a plea—but she says nothing. Her silence is colder than any scream.
I pace the room, restless, jaw tight. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way—like the ground has shifted beneath my feet, like I’ve summoned something I can’t contain. I glance at her again. Her dress is wrinkled, the pearls askew, mascara smudged beneath her eyes and still, she’s the most formidable woman I’ve ever seen.
In the end, I don’t reach for her. I don’t press my advantage. I leave her standing by the window, her profile carved in lamplight, while I pour myself a drink and try to steady my thoughts. I watch her reflection in the glass, small and distant, but unmistakably present.
The power I sought tonight feels strange in my hands: cold, cumbersome, heavier than I imagined. I look at my bride, my enemy, my greatest prize, and for the first time in years, I feel a chill of unease cut through the triumph.
She is fire, and I have only begun to feel the burn.
Chapter Nineteen - Isabella
Emil leaves with only a nod. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “Change. There’s a nightdress for you.”
Then he shuts the door with a soft click.
I’m alone in a bedroom built for show: walls draped in silk, gold-edged mirrors, candles flickering along the mantel. All of it too bright, too cold.
The bed is enormous, covered in brocade that feels rough beneath my palms. I perch on the edge, wedding dress half undone, bodice loosened, my hands balled in the fabric. I stare at the door as if it might vanish.
