The clock on the nightstand ticks out the seconds, each one a hammer-blow to my chest. The silence is alive, breathing, a beast hunting its prey.
My mind races, shoving jagged images at me. I see the aisle stretching out in front of me, my own feet moving as if someone else was steering them. Emil’s face, flat and unreadable, as he slid the ring on my finger—a gesture so final I almost laughed. The crowd, shifting and whispering, all those strangers with sharp smiles watching me as if I were an offering.
I remember the moment he kissed me for the cameras, the press of his mouth against mine—cold, rehearsed, nothing gentle about it. My skin still tingles where he touched me, the memory of it making my stomach turn.
I feel sick, hollow and jittery. I haven’t eaten since yesterday; the untouched tray of food sits on a side table, covered with a silver dome, the scent of rich sauce heavy in the air. My bouquet lies discarded on a chair, petals bruised and falling apart. Somewhere deep in the house, music rises andfalls, a distant echo of the party I just left. It all feels too far away to matter.
The room itself is unbearable. The heat is stifling, yet goose bumps break out along my arms. Shadows puddle under the wardrobe, crawl up the corners. The air moves in tiny drafts. Every time I shift, the mattress creaks, too loud in the hush.
I wait. It’s a different kind of torture, this waiting. I brace myself for what’s coming, my whole body tensed for violence or humiliation or some act that will finish the story everyone started writing for me the moment my name changed.
I think of stories I heard as a child, stories of men who broke their brides on their wedding night, who wanted only submission. Women who vanished after the wedding, who came back empty, all the fire gone from their eyes. I wonder if I’ll be one of them.
A part of me wants to fight. To claw, to bite, to say something cruel enough to buy me time or space.
I’m so tired. My mouth is dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of it. I press my hands together, digging nails into my palm. The need to scream and the urge to go utterly numb fight for space inside my chest.
The door opens, quietly. No drama. Emil steps inside, suit perfectly tailored, hair still damp, a faint trace of cologne rolling ahead of him. He’s a storm bottled in flesh—imposing, precise, absolutely in control of every muscle.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me. The silence grows thick, hot, sticky. I stare back, defiant as I can muster, and the room seems to contract around us, pulling the walls in closer, trapping every scrap of air.
I expect a jeer, a threat, some biting line to remind me who won. Instead, he slips out of his jacket, folding it with meticulous care and laying it over a chair. He unbuttons his cuffs, one at a time, rolling up his sleeves.
I follow the motion, unable to stop myself. He looks up and our eyes meet—just for a heartbeat. I look away, hating that he can see my fear, that my only weapon is the stubborn refusal to cower, even now.
He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t gloat. The quiet builds until I can hear my own breath: shallow, quick, the faintest catch at the end of every exhale. He’s studying me, cataloging everything—the way I clutch the fabric at my waist, the red marks on my shoulders from the dress, the wildness in my eyes.
I wonder what he sees—a bride, a prisoner, a victory? Or something else entirely?
When he finally crosses the room, his steps are slow, measured. No threat in them, just the sense of inevitability, the way an avalanche begins with one stone. I hold myself rigid, determined not to flinch. The candlelight flickers, catching on the band of his wedding ring, painting gold across his knuckles.
He stops a foot from me. For a moment, there’s nothing but breathing and the faint tick of the clock. I feel every second, every beat, written into my bones.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even reach for me. Just stands there, gaze heavy, and waits for something neither of us can name.
The silence is the loudest thing in the room.
He sits beside me on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. I tense, every muscle tight as wire,dread prickling over my skin. I expect violence, some cruel proof of ownership… something to finally shatter the last of my pride.
He doesn’t lunge. He turns to me slowly, lifts his hand, and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. The touch is solid, not rough, but there’s nothing gentle in it either. It’s assessment, not comfort—he tips my face up, his gaze tracing over every feature, cataloging my fear, my fury, my unwillingness to break.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. The command is absolute. I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re gray and cold, the same eyes I saw at the altar, unflinching, impossibly steady.
Inside, I’m chaos. My thoughts splinter. I hate his touch, hate the way my pulse hammers beneath my skin, hate how my body is sharp with shame and something darker, stranger. I feel myself bracing—waiting for humiliation, for pain, for the fulfillment of every horror story whispered by women in gilded cages.
I won’t beg. I won’t weep. I’ll grit my teeth and survive whatever comes.
He studies me for a long, slow moment. Then he lets go of my chin and moves to the fastenings of my dress.
His fingers are deft, unhurried. He unlaces the bodice, pulls at the hooks and tiny pearl buttons, his knuckles grazing my collarbone. I flinch when the fabric slips off my shoulders, leaving me exposed to the candlelight.
He watches every reaction, eyes moving over me as if he’s reading a confession written on my skin. His touch never lingers, never soothes. It’s deliberate, clinical, possessive.
I force myself to stay still, to keep my breath steady, but my hands tremble. He brushes them aside, sliding the sleeves down my arms, the dress pooling around my waist.
He says something in Russian that’s soft, almost inaudible. I don’t know if it’s a threat or a prayer. The words curl in the air, dense and unfamiliar. I want to ask what he means, but the question dies in my throat.
He leans in, his breath warm on my cheek, his hands mapping the lines of my shoulders, my waist, my ribs.
