The reality of it presses in, sudden and suffocating. I’m getting married today to a man who told me“want has nothing to do with it.”To protect myself. To protect him.
“Harper.” Sera’s voice softens. “If you need a moment—”
“No.” I straighten, spine lengthening. “If I stop to think, I’ll start running.”
She nods.
“Then let’s go.”
She opens the door.
Outside, the estate is unrecognizable. It’s been transformed into something regal and intimidating. Syrian white roses line the walls, crystal lanterns hang from the atrium beams, scattering fragments of light across marble floors.
Guards in tailored black stand like carved obsidian statues along the corridors. I can hear faint music drifting from the garden, something classical and solemn.
This isn’t a wedding; it’s more like a declaration. A line drawn in the snow.
Sera walks beside me, her presence a quiet anchor as we descend the staircase. Staff pause to stare. Politicians, oligarchs, underworld titans wearing silver cuff links and colder expressions turn as we pass, whispering behind manicured fingers.
I feel exposed, displayed, yet untouchable at the same time.
Standing near the archway at the garden entrance is Damian with his hands clasped behind his back. Suit sharp, expression unreadable. The cold air ruffles his dark hair, but nothing else about him moves. He looks like a storm contained in human shape.
His eyes lift to me.
For a moment, everything else disappears.
An emotion that I can’t read flickers in those emerald eyes like a candle behind a wall, seen only when the angle is just right. It ignites a tremor in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear.
Sera squeezes my hand once, then slips away to stand with Mikhail, leaving me at the threshold.
Damian steps forward.
“Harper,” he says, voice low enough that only I hear it. “You’re ready.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready.”
He gives me a long, quiet look that feels like a hand pressed over my pulse.
“You are,” he murmurs.
The certainty in his tone steadies me in a way I can’t name. Even now, even like this, some part of me leans toward him as if drawn by an instinct older than reason. I inhale, tasting cold and fate and something dangerously close to hope.
Sera’s voice echoes from somewhere behind us, no doubt telling me to breathe, but my lungs already obey Damian’s presence more than her words.
I take the arm he offers me, and the world narrows to the path ahead, to the archway of roses, to the weight of every watching eye.
“We begin,” the priest murmurs without ever lifting his gaze.
The ritual is brisk, almost businesslike. They don’t bother with poetry or symbolic flourishes. No soft music, no petals scattered on the floor. Only the rustle of fabric as people shift,the crisp winter air sneaking in through the open archway, and my own heartbeat thudding like a coded warning.
I recite the words placed in front of me quietly. I’ve never heard vows sound so clinical, but there’s a strange relief in that. No illusions. No pretense.
When it’s Damian’s turn, he speaks with the same precision he brings to negotiations, voice even, low, tethered to something older than tradition. Yet when he reaches the line requiring physical touch, his hand finds my waist.
Not the small of my back—my waist. It’s nothing but possessive, and my traitorous body blooms under the simple action before I can stop it. The kiss we share is performative and slight, because I know how Damian Ignatov kisses, and it’s not this way.
His fingers rest with a pressure that tells me he’s aware of every breath I take. And for a fleeting, fragile second, I believe he might actually mean the words he speaks.
