But then the priest closes the book, and with the applause erupting, the illusion shatters like thin ice under too much weight.
Damian’s hand withdraws. His expression returns to that controlled neutrality he wears like armor.
Don’t expect anything, Harper,I tell myself.It’s duty, survival, nothing more.
Except my body hasn’t gotten the memo. My pulse still remembers the heat of his palm.
Sera appears at my side almost immediately, linking her arm through mine as if she senses how my knees shake beneath the dress.
“Breathe,” she whispers through her bright smile. “You did perfectly.”
“I felt like I was watching someone else,” I admit, words swallowed by the rising chatter of guests.
“That’s normal,” she says. “Half the brides here are watching their lives happen from outside their bodies. At least yours still has a pulse.”
Before I can respond, a pair of doors open to reveal the reception hall.
It is… overwhelming.
Crystal chandeliers drip light like molten gold. Tables gleam with polished silver, white roses spiraling around candle vases. Power brokers stand shoulder to shoulder with Bratva soldiers.
Eyes follow me as Sera guides me into the room. I feel dissected by every stare, evaluated like a strategic acquisition. My spine straightens instinctively, the dress shifting around my legs like a whisper of defiance.
Sera leans in.
“Ignore them. They’re wondering what kind of woman traps Damian Ignatov into a public wedding.”
“Well,” I say, “so am I.”
She huffs a laugh, then begins skillfully diverting any conversations that veer too close, too sharp. She floats through the crowd with practiced ease, absorbing attention, diffusing tension, shielding me from the worst of it.
But even under her protection, I still feel the weight of observation.
Especially when I noticehim.
A man stands near the edge of the crowd, half in shadow, half in candlelight, tall and reserved. His gray suit fits him with military precision. He radiates discipline, the type born from environments where mistakes cost blood.
He’s watching the room, not me. But he registers everything: exits, faces, potential threats. A strategist, or a soldier with elevation.
Sera notices my gaze and immediately waves him over.
“Harper, meet Iosif Ignatov,” she says. “Another cousin. He just came back from Europe to handle international operations.”
He takes my hand in a handshake that is surprisingly gentle for someone whose posture is razor-straight. His smile is polite, almost distant.
“Welcome to the family,” Iosif says.
His tone isn’t warm, but it’s not cold either. It feels… observational. As if he’s filing my existence into a category he hasn’t yet decided on.
Before I can reply, my heart jolts at the sight of a familiar figure across the room.
“Iris?” I breathe.
Iris Vale turns toward me—same sharp eyes, same sleek dark bob, same quiet intelligence that once made her the best colleague I ever had. Her presence feels like a crack of sunlight through a storm.
“Harper,” she says, stepping forward with genuine warmth. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me tonight.”
“What? No—God, Iris, of course I do.” I hug her without thinking, ignoring the brief spike of surprise from the guards watching us. “It’s so good to see you.”
