Cornered.
Calculating.
Then, suddenly, she turned back to the priest.
“Yes,” she said.
Clear.
Definite.
The priest blinked, confusion flickering through terror. “Yes to whom, Miss Vasquez?” His voice trembled. “To... Mr. Thompson? Or to Mr. Baranov?”
Her hand lifted.
Shaking.
And pointed directly at me.
“To him.”
Shock rippled through the chapel like a live wire.
Gasps. Murmurs.
The Thompsons stiffened. The Vasquez contingent went deadly still.
She had chosen.
She had chosen me.
She had chosen death.
She had chosen agony.
And she had absolutely no idea how thoroughly I intended to deliver both.
The priest’s voice cracked like old parchment left too long in the sun.
“And do you...” He paused, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing as if forcing my name past his lips might cost him his life. His gaze flicked once—quick, terrified—to the menlining the pews, to Petros standing like an executioner carved from stone, to the blood on the bride’s dress. “Do you, Ruslan Baranov, take this woman, Elena Vasquez, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, forsaking all others, till death do you part?”
“Yes,” I cut in.
The word landed like a blade driven into wood—clean, final, violent in its certainty. “End this.”
The old man flinched as if I’d struck him.
His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the prayer book. He fumbled instead for the rings—two plain platinum bands kept by the chapel for emergencies. No diamonds. No inscriptions. No romance. Just cold, indifferent metal.
How fitting.
A nervous altar boy scurried forward with the velvet cushion, eyes wide, breath coming too fast. He looked like a child pressed into a war he didn’t understand.
Elena reached for the first ring.
Her hand trembled so violently it slipped from her fingers and clinked against the marble step, the sound sharp and humiliating in the hush. A ripple of murmurs moved through the pews.
She froze, cheeks flushing, then bent to retrieve it. Her veil slid forward, draping her face like a shroud.
