“You hurt my daughter…” he fires as he shifts her hand into mine. “And I’ll find a way to make you regret it.”
I nod once, not offended in the slightest. I would do far worse if she was my daughter.
He holds my gaze a second longer, then steps back, guiding his wife to the front pew as Father Pasha begins the ceremony.
But I’m not looking at anyone else. I bring Fiona’s hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Her fingers twitch in my hold.
“You look beautiful, moya ptichka.”
She doesn’t smile. Instead, she leans in, her tone razor-sharp beneath the veil. “You’re making a huge mistake. And you may think you’re only hurting me with this sham of a marriage, but you’re hurting yourself too, Marinov. Because I will never love you, and everyone needs that.”
I laugh under my breath, the sound vibrating in my chest as I kiss her hand again. “Your love is the last thing I want. Believe me.”
I don’t let go, tightening my grip instead. She glares at me, heat flaring behind her eyes, and all I feel is fire. The kind that burns. The kind that brands.
The priest starts speaking, but his voice fades behind the roar in my head. All I hear is her breath. The shift of her gown. The crack in her voice as she repeats the words she’s forced to say.
Then Konstantin leans in, speaking low behind me. “Don’t waste this chance to have more than he ever let us have.”
I say nothing.
Because I’m not wasting it. I’m claiming it. I’m claiming her.
But love? Love makes men weak. Makes them forget who they are. What matters.
Just because he forgot that doesn’t mean I will. I won’t falter, and I won’t fall.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FIONA
The ceremony is over.
The fake vows, the diamond rings on my finger, the man gripping my hand… I survived all of it. Somehow.
Now I’m standing in the middle of his estate under a silk-draped tent strung with crystals, surrounded by more criminals than a Manhattan courthouse on indictment day.
Roses. Peonies. Velvet chairs. White centerpieces that probably cost more than my car.
It’s all stunning. And suffocating.
My wedding reception looks like a war council disguised as a black-tie gala. There must be a hundred people here, probably more. Everywhere I look, someone is watching me, their eyes taking in every detail.
The room is packed with designer suits and dresses, like everyone showed up to audition for aVoguespread.
And me? I didn’t invite anyone. Not a single friend. Not a single coworker. Because how do you invite people to witness your legally binding fall into hell?
Come celebrate as Fiona Clark marries Aleksei Marinov, the man she once tried to put away for life! Open bar. Armed guests. Please RSVP.
I’d laugh if it didn’t feel like I might scream.
People keep walking up to us, congratulating us like we’re some happy couple and I’m a blushing bride who wasn’t emotionally blackmailed into marrying a man who may or may not bury someone alive before dessert.
I really wouldn’t put it past him.
Aleksei plays the role well: smiling tightly, nodding politely, his hand resting low on my back like he owns me. Which, to be fair, he kind of does.
