The thought keeps circling, never quite landing in a way that makes sense. I'm Matilda Petrova now. I have a ring on my finger that catches the light every time I move my hand, and a husband whose arm hasn't left my waist since we said our vows.
Gennady's men approach in a steady stream. Each one offers congratulations with varying degrees of warmth. Stefan is gruff but seems genuine. Vasily is formal, correct, but something in his eyes suggests he's reserving judgment. Others whose names I don't catch blur together in a parade of dark suits and careful smiles.
"To the Pakhan and his bride," Vasily says, raising his champagne glass. His voice carries across the orangery. "May your union bring strength to this family and protection to those who stand with you."
It's more warning than blessing, I realize. A reminder to everyone here that I'm under Gennady's protection now. That touching me means answering to him.
Glasses clink. People drink. I bring my champagne to my lips but barely feel the bubbles past the dryness in my mouth.
Gennady's thumb strokes small circles at my waist, and I don't know if he's trying to soothe me or claim me or both.
Probably both.
Mila appears at my side, her face glowing despite the bruise that's still slightly visible under her makeup. "You're doing great," she whispers. "Just smile and nod. They'll be gone soon."
"How soon?" I ask, trying not to sound desperate.
"Very soon, if I know my brother." She grins. "He's not exactly known for his patience."
As if summoned by her words, Gennady leans down, his mouth near my ear. "Ten more minutes."
Ten minutes until what, exactly? Until everyone leaves and we're alone and I have to face what comes next?
My stomach flips.
Judge Varney approaches, leather folder in hand. "Just need signatures here and here," he says, pointing to lines on official-looking documents.
Gennady signs first, his handwriting bold and assured. Then he hands me the pen.
I stare at the line where my name should go. Matilda Petrova. Not Lazovskia anymore. Never Lazovskia again.
My hand trembles slightly as I sign, but the letters come out clear enough.
"Congratulations," the judge says, already backing away like he can't leave fast enough. "The marriage is legally binding as of right now."
He practically flees toward the exit. I watch him go and feel the walls closing in.
Legally binding.
No take-backs. No do-overs. I'm married to Gennady Petrov, and somewhere in the back of my mind, panic is starting to claw its way forward.
"Breathe," Gennady says quietly, his hand sliding up to rest between my shoulder blades.
I realize I've been holding my breath.
"I'm fine," I lie.
"You're scared." His voice isn't unkind. "It’s normal to be nervous, but you don’t have to be afraid. Not of me."
I look up at him, searching his face for any sign that he's having second thoughts. That he's realized what a mistake this is. But all I see is certainty, solid and immovable.
More people approach. More congratulations. More glasses raised in toasts that all sound vaguely threatening even when they're meant to be kind.
I smile until my face hurts. Nod until my neck aches. And through it all, Gennady keeps me anchored to his side, his presence the only constant in a room full of strangers.
Finally, finally, people start to leave.
Vasily clasps Gennady's shoulder. "Take care of her, boss."
