I didn’t look at her, keeping my gaze fixed on the marble steps. “I am fine.”
She said nothing, but as we reached the bottom landing, her fingers found my hand beneath the heavy folds of my cape. She squeezed once, hard, urgent, and silent. It wasn’t a casual touch. It was a fierce, silent promise of solidarity. A reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone in this web of black suits and deadly loyalties.
I drew on that physical support. It was a small anchor in the storm that was waiting for me outside. If two of the Lobanov wives were on my side, then maybe, just maybe, I had enough strength to pull this off.
We passed through the security checkpoint in the main hall. The atmosphere changed instantly. Even inside the mansion, I could feel the energy of the world pressing in. We moved toward the main doors, which were guarded by two enormous security details.
The security doors opened, and the sound and lights hit me like a physical wave. It was chaos, meticulously organized. Black SUVs lined the massive driveway. But beyond the stone gate, Fifth Avenue was a wall of noise and flashing lights.
Flashes of light. Hundreds of them, exploding everywhere, white, violent, relentless. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a thick, inhuman noise that even the bulletproof cars couldn’t fully muffle. Reporters were shouting, screaming my name, Roman’s name, yelling desperate questions about the merger, about Arkady, about the diamond on my hand.
This was a media frenzy. I didn’t flinch, but I kept the royal, cool expression fixed on my face, letting the cape sweep dramatically behind me as I walked the short distance to the waiting car. I saw the cameras, the lenses, the faces pressed against the wrought iron. In that moment, the realization solidified, I wasn’t just Liza Markova anymore. I was a character, a lead in a global spectacle.
I was entering the stage. And the performance had to be flawless. Stepan opened the door to the lead car. I gave the cameras one final, ice-cold smile, the smile of a woman who chose this, and slipped into the luxurious, suffocating darkness of the black seat.
The car door slammed shut, cutting the frantic noise down to a muffled, continuous hum. The luxurious interior of the car, with its dark leather and soundproofing, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a very expensive, mobile cage. Isabella sat across from me, her expression still worried. We didn’t speak because there was nothing left to say.
My gaze drifted down to the heavy satin folds of the cape pooling around my lap. My hands rested there. Hidden, tucked into the thick fabric, was the small, cold metal of the flash drive. My father’s betrayal, tucked securely next to my own. It was my only insurance.
I took an internal inventory of my plan. Composure, checked. The look I had practiced, a serene, powerful grace, was fixed in place. The gown was flawless. The drive was hidden. And everything was ready for the façade.
But below the composure, the new secret pulsed. This marriage was my ultimate trap. If Roman discovered the pregnancy, I was permanently his. The thought sent a jolt of ice through my veins, immediately followed by a wave of protective heat. The life inside me was so tiny, so vulnerable, and yet it was already the heaviest thing I carried.
Yet, this trap was also my only weapon. Marrying Roman gave me access to the Lobanov’s network, their security, and their endless resources. Only with his machine could I truly trap Arkady and survive the fallout. The secret baby complicated everything, raising the stakes from revenge to survival, but it didn’t change the mission. I had to proceed. I had to become Roman Lobanov’s wife.
The car slowed. The muffled roar outside grew louder, deeper.
“We are here, Liza,” Isabella whispered, a warning.
I felt the sudden, crushing halt as the car pulled up to the curb. The door locks clicked open. In the brief second before Stepan pulled the handle, the world outside exploded again, an overwhelming flood of noise and white light.
I had to adopt the public persona instantly. My hand reached out for Stepan’s steady grip. I took one last, deep breath, pulling the cloak of royalty over the trembling, pregnant woman inside. As I stepped out of the car, into the light and the roar, only one thought mattered: if I can keep my mask on through the ceremony, maybe I can survive whatever comes next.
Chapter Thirteen
Roman’s POV
The air in the private hall was thick with the chill of air conditioning and the sweet, overwhelming scent of thousands of white lilies. We had staged a winter garden, crystal chandeliers blazing, silk draperies pristine, the marble floor reflecting the glittering light. It was meant to be flawless, an image of old-world grace. But the reality was grim. Every pillar shadowed a man with a weapon, every exit was locked down by armed guards in black suits who looked less like security and more looked less like security and more like wolves waiting for a kill.
I stood at the altar, feeling the weight of the moment more than I felt the weight of my suit. Viktor was on my right, silent, cold, and utterly dominant. Mikhail and Konstantin flanked us, dark, brooding figures, sentinels guarding a precious, strategic prize. This wasn’t a wedding party; it was a battle formation waiting for the first hostile move.
I had negotiated with senators and stared down men who ordered hits for breakfast without a flicker of nerves. But now, waiting for the doors to open, something cold and sharp tightened in my chest. It wasn’t fear of the unknown. It was the dread of the inevitable. The performance was about to begin.
Konstantin shifted his weight, sensing my tension. “You look like you’re about to sign a death warrant, not a marriage certificate,” he murmured, his voice low, just for me.
“In this family, they’re often the same thing, Konstantin,” I replied, my gaze locked on the doors. “Just a matter of whose blood is spilled first.”
Viktor didn’t turn, but his voice was a cold rumble of warning. “Focus, Roman. The media is waiting for the photos. Control the narrative.”
“I am controlling it,” I assured him, though my focus was suddenly pulled away from the strategy.
The heavy, carved double doors eased open, and she appeared. Liza. She was a breathtaking splash of color against the sea of black and white. The cream satin gown was magnificent, emphasizing every curve I already knew intimately. The lack of a veil and the dramatic, sweeping cape screamed defiance. She wasn’t walking, she was leading, regal and utterly calm.
And her eyes, they were locked on mine the moment she saw me. It was a deliberate, unflinching stare, a silent acknowledgement of the transaction. You took me. Now watch the performance. I recognized the calculated move, the pride she wouldn’t let me break.
She finally stopped before me. Her composure was perfect. The officiant began the ceremony. The words were meaningless, empty boilerplate promises that my lawyer had scrubbed of anything genuine. I watched Liza’s face as she recited her part.
“I take you, Roman Lobanov, to be my husband,” she said, her voice smooth, musical, and terrifying, free of any tremor.
