My eyes lingered on her lips as she looked up at me, impatient for a response.
“Tomorrow,” I uttered.
Chapter Five
Isabella’s POV
The morning light crept in through the tall, curtainless windows, falling across my face like a question I didn't want to answer. The room was still, too perfect. The kind of silence that came before vows or gunfire.
A soft knock then broke through it. "Come in," I said, my voice even. The door opened, and Emilia stepped in, followedby two servants carrying boxes of different sizes. The women lowered their packages onto the couch, bowed slightly, and left.
When the door opened, Emilia just stood there, her eyes glistening. "You're really going through with this," she said quietly.
I pushed myself up from the bed, smoothing my hair. "You know I don't have a choice."
Emilia crossed the room and hugged me hard. "I hate this idea. I hate that you're being forced into something that isn't love."
I smiled faintly against her shoulder. "Love's not a currency in our world, Emilia. Duty pays better."
Emilia pulled back, frowning. "You make it sound like you don't feel anything."
"I do," I said simply, my voice calm but sharp. "I just learned to feel quietly."
Emilia shook her head. "You shouldn't have to learn that." She turned to the gown laid out on the chair; it was a white satin, intricate lace, the kind of dress that belonged to fairy tales, not the Bratva.
"Everything in this world is for show," I said, walking toward the mirror. "Power, loyalty, even marriage."
Emilia sighed, folding her arms. "You sound like Viktor and Mikhail."
My reflection met her gaze in the mirror as I chuckled.
The room went quiet, and Emilia stepped closer again, her tone softening. "You don't have to pretend with me, Isa. I know this isn't easy."
"I'm not pretending," I said, still facing the mirror. "I just accept what's necessary."
Emilia studied me, the straight shoulders, the unblinking eyes. "You call this necessary?"
"It's the law of Bratva," I replied. "My father owed a debt, and I'm paying it. There's honor in that."
"You were supposed to have a real wedding someday," Emilia murmured. "One where you smiled for the right reasons."
I shrugged gently. "Maybe this is still that day. Just not in the way anyone expected."
"I still don't get it," Emilia said. "Why not run? You could've left this country, gone somewhere quiet–"
"And live like a fugitive?" I cut in. "Come on, you know I’m not the running type. I’d rather face it.”
“Even Mikhail is surprised at how easily you agreed to all this.”
I chuckled again.
I wanted to tell her the real reason I was going with his plans—but I really couldn’t. As much as Emilia and I have become good friends, she was still a Lobanov. While I had never had a reason to doubt her loyalty, telling her my plans would put her in a bad position as the Pakhan’s wife. I’d rather not.
My ringtone sounded, and I picked up the call. “Okay. Yeah, hand it to them. They’ll bring it up.”
“This is so not my style,” I told her, gesturing to the white dress the servants had laid on the bed.
She was about to respond when a knock sounded on the door.
