“Say yes,” I ordered quietly.
Low. Deadly. Only for her.
She shook her head again.
Stubborn. Terrified.
Then Yannis tugged at her other hand.
Small fingers, urgent movements—sign language moving fast, almost frantic.
Please. Say yes.
She looked down at him.
Swallowed hard.
Looked back up at me.
Our eyes met.
For the first time, I saw something flicker there that was not calculation or manipulation. It was recognition—but not of my name or my reputation.
Of what I was.
A god of ruin.
A man carved out of loss and violence and endurance. The legend whispered about in the dark.
Her lips parted.
She glanced at Yannis again.
Then, her voice—barely audible, damaged in a way I didn’t yet understand—broke through the silence.
“No.”
The word hovered in the air like smoke.
Before I could move—before Petros could breathe—footsteps thundered up the aisle.
Harris Thompson.
His tuxedo was immaculate. His expression thunderous with wounded pride and entitlement. He looked like a man who had realized the board had shifted without his permission.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he announced, voice carrying to every corner of the chapel. “I want the marriage to proceed. If you would step aside, Mr. Baranov.”
The audacity.
Petros surged forward instantly, fist cocked, eyes blazing. How dare this child address me as though I were an inconvenience?
I lifted one hand.
Petros froze mid-step, jaw tight, barely containing the violence humming through him.
Elena’s gaze darted wildly—between me, my son, Harris.
Trapped.
