The wedding is arranged with the precision of a firing squad.
I stand in the center of Damian’s office while phones ring like distant alarms, while men in immaculate suits move in and out with folders and clipped Russian phrases.
In less than an hour, papers appear on the polished desk: marriage license drafts, guest lists, seating charts, security codes. My future, broken down into logistics.
It feels less like a ceremony and more like a merger; my name being absorbed into the Ignatov architecture the way a small company disappears into a conglomerate.
I’m not asked for input. I’m simply placed into the blueprint.
The estate shifts with the news. Guards multiply like shadows after sunset. Even the air seems to harden, thickening with expectation.
Outside, beyond the iron gates, journalists gather like vultures on the periphery—kept far enough away that they can’t see the truth, only imagine it. Reporters smell scandal like wolves smell blood; this is both.
I catch my reflection in the window as security teams cross the courtyard. I look like someone caught in a story she doesn’t believe she’s in. Pale, composed, brittle as porcelain in an earthquake.
And yet I don’t shatter.
Maybe I’m too stunned. Or maybe some part of me decided long ago that breaking would give men like Anton exactly what they want.
“Harper,” Sera says, her voice warm honey poured over steel. She stands behind me with a garment bag slung over her arm. “Come on. If you stay in this room any longer, you’ll fuse with the furniture.”
Her attempt at humor lifts something heavy off my chest.
Sera has been the one constant thread in this new, brutal tapestry. She doesn’t treat me like a pawn or an inconvenience, nor does she pretend this is destiny. She simply exists beside me. A lighthouse in a city made of knives.
She takes my hand without asking and leads me down the hall. The mansion feels brighter, louder. Staff carrying trays of champagne flutes glide past us. A florist rushes in with armfuls of winter roses, their petals like spilled cream.
A team is assembling an arch in the back garden; the icy air bites through the open doors as workers hurry in and out.
It’s beautiful, in a way only something terrifying can be.
Sera pulls me into a side suite converted into a dressing room.
“This is your sanctuary for the next hour,” she says, shutting the door on the chaos.
She unzips the garment bag like she’s revealing a secret.
Inside is a dress made of the softest ivory, simple, absolutely unadorned. No jewels, no embroidery, no lace heavy enough to drown in. When I touch it, it slides against my fingertips like a quiet exhale.
“Oh,” I whisper.
“It’s perfect,” Sera says, grinning. “You’re going to outshine every oligarch’s bride this city has ever seen.”
I let out a soft laugh, the first natural sound I’ve made since Damian told me the truth.
“I doubt that.”
“No.” She gives me a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You will. And that terrifies them more than anything.”
Her certainty steadies me.
I change, letting the dress settle against my skin. It floats when I move. Like breath, like surrender, like something in me is lifting despite everything trying to drag it down.
Sera steps back, arms crossed, evaluating me like a piece of art she’s personally curated. “You look… dangerous.”
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“It should be.” She smirks. “In this world, danger is the only form of affection anyone respects.”
