I need to control her, to own the truth. This day was about confirming my power over the situation. I had told myself this over and over, hardening the intent in my mind until it was a brutal, unshakeable declaration to marry her in the morning and break her walls by nightfall.
A sound cut through my thoughts, a low tap on the outer study door. “Enter.”
Stepan Morozov, my right-hand man, walked in. He looked every bit the ex-military operative… buzz cut, broad-shouldered, professional, and radiating the controlled coldness of a weapon waiting to be used.
“The report, Roman.” His ice grey eyes were flat.
“Give it to me, Stepan. Don’t waste my time with pleasantries.”
“Fifth Avenue is already a zoo. Crowds are ten deep on both sides, pushing against the barriers. The media trucks started rolling in before 4 AM. We have aerial drones trying to get shots of the rooftop. Every paper from Moscow to Milan is running our photos from the hospital gala this morning. They’re already calling it the wedding of the century.”
I didn’t flinch. I had planned for a circus, but the sheer volume of the frenzy still hit me with force. It meant the risks were multiplied a thousand times over. One mistake, one stray shot, one unauthorized photo of a security breach, and the narrative I spent months building would collapse.
“The venue?” I asked, my voice curt and emotionless.
“Perfect. The private access tunnel from the garage is secure. No one gets near the bride before she’s escorted in. Konstantin is running the outer perimeter check now. Viktor and Mikhail will be inside the main hall.”
“Good.” I adjusted my jacket. “No leaks. No mistakes. I want absolute order, Stepan. Today, we gave them a fairytale. Nothing less.”
Stepan nodded, a silent acknowledgement of the severity of the command. He understood the stakes better than anyone. He understood that today was not about love, or even loyalty. It was about power and the deadly art of performance. He turned to leave, and I took a deep, steadying breath. It was time to face the inevitable.
Stepan left, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence rushed back in, heavy and absolute. I was dressed, armed, and briefed. All that remained was the final step, leaving the sanctity of the suite and stepping into the battlefield of the public eye.
But I paused. My eyes were fixed on the double doors that led to the inner bedroom. Liza was there. Eighty-six square feet of total, unsettling mystery. It was the last sliver of privacy she held from me, a final physical barrier to the secrets I needed to expose. I was her captor, her fiancé, and soon, her husband, yet I still felt like I stood outside a locked vault.
A foolish, traitorous urge hit me then. I wanted to open the door. I closed my eyes, and the image formed instantly, sharp and unwanted of Liza, still asleep, her dark hair a sleek bob against the white pillowcase. I pictured her full curves soft under the silk sheets, her lips slightly parted in a silent, vulnerable exhale. That image, the one of her completely unguarded and unaware, twisted the cold logic and possessiveness. It wasn’t the strategist who wanted to look, but it was the man. The man who was furious that this woman, whom I’d taken for revenge, now occupied so much of my mental space.
Stop it. I shook my head, the silk of my suit jacket rustling. That softness was a lie. That vulnerability was a trap. The moment I started seeing her as a woman, I lost.
She’s a liability, not a woman. I repeated the mantra like a security code, forcing her back into the mental box of pawn and problem. She was leveraged. She was the final piece of the puzzle that was Arkady’s betrayal and nothing more.
I adjusted my cufflinks one last time, checking my reflection. I looked exactly like the man the world expected, polished, in control, the golden face of the Lobanov dynasty.
With a final, measured breath, I turned and walked toward the main exit of the suite. The door was heavy, solid. I opened it and stepped out into the controlled chaos of the mansion hallway, leaving the unresolved tension. Liza’s silence, the secret she carried, and the image of her sleeping face lingered, like smoke, behind that closed bedroom door. The wedding had officially begun.
Chapter Twelve
Liza’s POV
The air in the bedroom suite was thick with the scent of expensive hairspray and lilies. I sat perfectly still at the heavy mahogany vanity, watching my own reflection. I was a stranger in the glass. The dark, sharp bob of my hair was slicked back, sophisticated, untouchable. Isabella stood behind me, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she worked a pin into the thick knot of hair at my neck.
“Hold still,” she murmured, her breath warm against my ear. She was fusing with a massive diamond pin, a brutal, glittering piece of Lobanov jewelry that felt heavy, like a threat.
“I am still,” I replied, my voice steady, betraying none of the internal tremors running through me.
Isabella stepped back, her face softening into a brilliant smile. She looked at me, taking in the full effect of the dress. It wasn’t white, of course. White was for innocent girls, and I had been anything but innocent since the moment Roman dragged me into that place. I had chosen a cream satin gown in the soft light that hugged my curves and pooled beautifully at my feet. The truly defiant choice, however, was the dramatic, sweeping cape that flowed from the shoulders. No veil. A veil symbolized surrender. A cape symbolizes armor, concealment.
“It is done,” Isabella announced, running a hand down the heavy satin of my cape. “You’re radiant, Liza. Truly. Like a queen taking her throne.”
I gave her the wry smile I’d perfected for the press, the one that held just the right balance of gratitude and reserved mystery. But the words that left my mouth were dark, low, and just for her.
“Radiant? Maybe. More like a lamb to be slaughtered,” I corrected.
Isabella’s smile faltered, replaced by a flash of genuine worry in her eyes. She knew. She was one of the few people in their entire Bratva nightmare who understood that this was not a fairytale merger but a highly televised execution of my freedom.
The trembling I felt now wasn’t caused by the sight of the diamond pin or the looming thought of walking down that aisle toward Roman. No, the fear had a sharper, more visceral origin. It was the knowledge, cold and certain, that I was no longer fighting for just myself.
I pressed my hand against my satin-covered belly. The missed period, the sudden, debilitating nausea I’d barely managed to hide the last few weeks, the way my heart hammered not just from fear but from a sudden, protective instinct all added up to one terrifying, undeniable truth.
