My jaw locked so hard I tasted blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
Behind me, Petros stepped forward, his voice pitched low but urgent. “Yannis,” he said gently, the way one speaks to a frightened animal, “that’s not how marriage works, little one. You can’t just order two strangers to—”
Yannis stamped his foot. Once. Hard.
The sound cracked against the vaulted ceiling, sharp and defiant. His small face flushed, jaw trembling with an emotion too big for his body to hold. He looked seconds away from throwing himself to the marble floor in a full, spectacular rebellion.
I moved before he could.
One arm scooped him against my chest, instinctive, protective. He fit there like he always had, light and fragile and devastatingly real. I bowed my head, pressing my mouth to his hair. The scent of his shampoo—clean, childish, painfully familiar—hit me like a memory grenade.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, my voice rough despite myself. “I’ve got you.”
Then, without lifting my head, I said the words that froze the room.
“I’ll marry her.”
Petros sucked in a sharp breath. “Boss—no. Never. She’s supposed to marry her fiancé. This—this would be an abomination.”
The priest, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, cleared his throat. His voice wavered as he spoke. “Actually... the fiancé already canceled the wedding. He was preparing to leave. Said the bride arrived too late. Punctuality, he claimed, is non-negotiable.”
So that was it.
I turned my gaze fully to the woman.
She stood trembling—no, shaking—from head to toe.
The torn hem of her blood-streaked gown brushed scraped knees. The ivory satin was smeared with dirt and red like war paint.
She looked like someone who had fought her way out of hell and walked straight into another.
And she didn’t look away.
Her chin lifted—not in defiance, but in refusal. Refusal to bow. To beg. To crumble. Pain lived in her eyes, yes—but so did iron.
My mind betrayed me.
Maria’s body flashed behind my eyes—her abdomen opened with surgical precision, the tiny, fragile form of our unborn child stabbed through the chest.
Her left eye gouged. Throat slit so deeply the blade had kissed bone. No frenzy. No rage. Just cold, methodical cruelty.
A woman had done that.
And though the photo Petros showed me matched her exactly, I had refused to believe it at first—my son’s tiny hands clutching her with trust made it impossible to reconcile. But the truth was undeniable. Standing here, close to her now, she was the living embodiment of that image—perfectly, horrifyingly the same.
My fingers curled into my palms until blood welled between them.
The longer I watched her, the truth settled with terrifying clarity.
This was her.
The hands that looked small and harmless were the same ones that had opened my wife like a body on a steel table.
The eyes that blinked in soft confusion had once watched life drain away without flinching.
She stood breathing in front of me, untouched by the blood she had spilled.
I sealed my oath in silence. Not in anger. Not in haste.
