The accusation struck home harder than any blow. Because she wasn't wrong. She wasn't wrong about any of it.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I want you. I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you, and I've done terrible things to have you here. That's the truth, and I won't insult you by denying it."
She stared at me, thrown off balance by the admission.
"But the danger is also real," I continued. "Pankratov is real. The threat to your life is real. And yes, I could have found another way to protect you—maybe should have. But I didn't. I chose this. I chose you. And now we're both going to live with the consequences."
"You chose. Not me. I never had a choice."
"No." The word tasted like ash. "You didn't. And I'm sorry for that. More than you'll ever believe."
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, at an apology she hadn't expected. It vanished quickly, replaced by the familiar wall of fury.
"Your apology doesn't change anything."
"I know." I pushed off from the door and crossed to the closet, retrieving the garment bag that had been delivered that morning. "But the ceremony is still happening. And I'd rather you walk into it with dignity than be carried."
I laid the bag on the bed and unzipped it, revealing the dress inside.
It was simple—I'd known she would hate anything ostentatious. Ivory silk, floor-length, with delicate lace at thebodice and a subtle train. Elegant without being extravagant. Beautiful without being bridal in the traditional sense.
I'd chosen it myself, spending hours looking at options, trying to imagine what she might have chosen for herself in another life. A life where she'd fallen in love, planned a wedding, walked down an aisle toward a man she actually wanted.
She approached slowly, her eyes fixed on the dress. I watched her face for any sign of softening and found none.
"It's beautiful," she said flatly. "And it changes nothing."
"I know."
"I'll wear it because you're right—I'd rather have dignity than be dragged. But when I put on this dress, when I stand beside you in front of that judge, I want you to remember something." She looked at me then, and the ice in her eyes was absolute. "I will never be your wife. Not really. Not in any way that matters. You can force me to go through the motions, but you will never have me."
The words should have angered me. Instead, they carved something open in my chest—a wound I hadn't known I could still feel.
"We'll see," I said, and left her to dress.
***
The terrace had been transformed.
White flowers—roses, orchids, gardenias—spilled from urns and cascaded from trellises, filling the air with sweetness. The afternoon sun cast everything in gold, and beyond the stone balustrade, the Mediterranean stretched to the horizon in endless, impossible blue.
It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like a stage set for a tragedy.
Judge Antonov stood at the center, his robes pristine, his expression professionally blank. Semyon waited to his left, hands clasped, face unreadable. Vartan stood slightly apart, his discomfort visible in the set of his shoulders and the way he refused to meet my eyes.
I took my position and waited.
She appeared in the doorway three minutes late—a small rebellion, but I allowed it. Yelena walked beside her, and when I saw Gabrielle fully for the first time, something stuttered in my chest.
The dress fit her perfectly, skimming her curves, turning her body into something luminous. Her hair had been pinned up loosely, soft tendrils framing her face. She wore no jewelry except a simple pair of pearl earrings that Yelena must have provided.
She looked like a bride. She looked like a sacrifice.
She walked toward me slowly, her spine rigid, her chin high. Her eyes were dry now—no more tears, just that terrible, frozen composure. When she reached my side, she didn't look at me. She stared straight ahead, at the sea, at the horizon, at anything but the man she was about to marry.
"We are gathered here," Judge Antonov began, his voice carrying across the terrace, "to witness the union of Vasily Mikhailovich Chernov and Gabrielle Sophie Blanchard in the bonds of matrimony."
The words washed over me, familiar and strange. I'd never imagined myself getting married—had assumed that part of life was closed to men like me. Love was a vulnerability.Attachment was a weakness. My father had taught me that, and my mother's death had confirmed it.
