“Come in,” I called again.
A servant walked in with a nylon-covered dress on a hanger. My dress. In my signature color.
“Now, it’smywedding,” I mentioned, smiling at a wide-eyed Emilia as I took the hanger from the servant and dismissed her.
“It’s magnificent,” she praised. “But a red wedding dress? How can you even think of fashion at a time like this?”
“It’s who I am,” I answered, shrugging. “Besides, I won’t be getting married twice. I should make it count.”
“Firecracker,” she quipped, chuckling.
“You know me.”
She sighed, her soft gaze on me.
"Emilia,” I whispered, my tone softening. “Thank you.”
"Always, Isa,” she answered. “You don’t have to thank me.”
I stared at the mirror, tracing the edge of my veil with my fingers.
I tilted my head, staring at my reflection.
If this is the end of me, then I'll end it on my own terms.
Inside my chest, I could feel it again, that quiet fire, the one I'd feel for months. This marriage was never about survival, but it was about justice, retribution. A slow burn until Mikhail Lobanov choked on his own sins.
I would get close, earn his trust, and let him believe I was his. And when he finally fell for me, truly fell...I would ruin him from the inside out.
But things wouldn’t be so simple, I knew that. There was a problem. It was the fact that I was physically attracted to Mikhail, wildly so, even though I’d rather die than admit it to anyone. I still remembered the few times I’d run into him, even when he wasn’t looking at me. Even now, despite my anger and maybe hatred towards him, I wanted him.
I wondered if my bodily attraction towards him would make it easier or harder to get close to him and exact my revenge. After all, I had every reason to focus on my revenge.
He killed the man I loved the most, my only sibling.
Now, I’ll make him love the woman who’ll bring his end.
“What are you thinking about now?” Emilia inquired.
“I’m not planning to stage a wedding attack; you can calm down,” I joked.
There was another knock on the door, but it was one of Mikhail’s men who came in this time.
“Mrs. Lobanov,” he greeted Emilia. “Preparations are done on the rooftop garden. The guests are waiting.”
“Well, let’s go. I’m ready,” I told them both.
And as the heavy doors opened and lights spilled over me, I stepped forward, each movement measured, each breath deliberate because I wasn't walking to a wedding, I was walking to my revenge.
I’m ready.
Chapter Six
Mikhail’s POV
Isabella Moretti, my bride, walked towards me, not in white. She walked through the path of roses wearing red. Deep, burning red. Every head turned, but she didn't care. Her heels hit the marble like bullets, each step surer than the last. The sun lit her dress, and the crystals along the lace caught the light like sparks.
White stood for purity and surrender, but she wore red, which signified fire, defiance, and war. I felt something twist in my chest, rage at first, then something else. That dangerous pull again, that same one I'd felt the night we first met.
