Instead, a wedding planner appeared at my door the next morning, efficient, professional, carrying a black card and instructions that money was no object. Maksim had informed me to choose whatever I wanted. Whatever made me happy.
As if happiness were something that could be purchased alongside floral arrangements and a four-tier cake.
So here I am. The Adler Planetarium. One hundred and twenty of Chicago's most influential elite waiting beyond these walls. About to commit one year of my life to a transaction dressed as a marriage.
"All done." The makeup artist steps back, admiring her work. "You look beautiful. Absolutely stunning."
I study my reflection in the mirror. She's right. I do look beautiful. Flawless skin, smoky eyes, lips painted a shade between nude and rose that somehow suggests innocence.
A perfect bride.
A perfect lie.
"I'll leave you alone to finish getting ready," she says, gathering her supplies with practiced efficiency. "Your father should be here soon to walk you down the aisle."
The words lodge under my ribs like a shard of glass, but I just nod. Smile. "Thank you. You did an excellent job."
She beams, pleased, and slips out the door.
Silence settles over the room like snowfall.
I rise from the chair and move to the full-length mirror where my wedding dress waits on its hanger. The gown is everything a wedding dress should be. Ivory silk that catches light like water, a fitted bodice that flows into a skirt with just enough volume to be romantic without drowning me. Delicate lace at the neckline and sleeves. Simple. Elegant. Perfect.
I know this isn't real. I know this is a business arrangement dressed in tulle and promises neither of us intends to keep.
But I got myself a dress like I would have if it were real.
A little bit of fairy tale in the dark dream. That's allowed, isn't it?
I slip into the gown, the silk cool and heavy against my skin. The zipper glides up my back with a whisper of sound. When I turn to face the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks untouchable. Ethereal. Like someone who's never been violated, never been abandoned, never learned that safety is an illusion sold by people who profit from the lie.
The makeup artist's words echo in my head. Your father should be here soon.
Father made it abundantly clear this morning, over breakfast he bothered to attend for once, that he'd be here to "give me away." Fulfilling his paternal duty. Playing the role of devoted father one last time before washing his hands of me completely.
As if he didn't give me away years before that, the night he ignored my tears and told me I was being dramatic.
I guess this will be the first time Maksim disappoints me.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
I smooth my hands over the silk, take a breath, and open it.
Alexei Zverev stands in the hallway.
We both freeze.
He's in a dark suit that fits him like a threat. Charcoal wool, perfectly tailored, the kind of thing that makes dangerous men look civilized while remaining utterly untamed beneath. His light brown hair is styled back from his face, and those green eyes are bright with something that looks like mischief and awe tangled together. The small scar through his left eyebrow catches the light.
He's devastatingly handsome.
And he's looking at me like I just punched the air from his lungs.
"Yebat," he says finally, the Russian curse soft and reverent.
Heat climbs my neck, floods my face. I cross my arms, instinctive armor against whatever this moment is becoming. "What are you doing here?"
