I asked her to wear it three days ago, when the doctor finally cleared her after thirteen days of bed rest and recovery. She looked uncertain at first.
"Are you sure?" she'd asked quietly. "It was hers. Your first wedding."
"I want all of you," I'd told her. "Past, present, and future. Elena would want this. Would want her dress to see love again instead of gathering dust. And I want—" The words caught. "I want to marry you knowing I'm honoring what I had while choosing what I have now."
She'd agreed.
The dress fits her perfectly—ivory silk and lace, traditional Russian style with long sleeves and high neck. It's been preserved for sixteen years, and now it moves again on a living woman. On my woman.
Her dark hair is pulled back simply. No veil—we're past pretending this is her first marriage or my first love. This is second chances, built on the bones of first tragedies.
She reaches me at midnight exactly.
Father Dimitri begins in Russian, the old liturgy that binds Orthodox marriages. The ceremony takes forty-five minutes—prayers, blessings, the crowning ritual where we wear linked crowns symbolizing martyrdom and kingship.
When we exchange vows, I speak first.
"Sonya Morozova, I vow to protect you and our child with my life. To honor the woman you are and the woman you're becoming. To never forget Elena while building our future together. To love you for all my days."
Her eyes are wet when she responds.
"Maksim Petrov, I vow to stand beside you as partner and equal. To honor Elena's memory while creating our own. To raise our child knowing both ghosts and futures. To love you for all my days."
We exchange rings—simple gold bands engraved inside with three names: Elena, Maksim, Sonya. Past woven into present into future.
Father Dimitri blesses us, declares us married under God and the Orthodox Church.
At 12:45 AM, I kiss my wife for the first time as her husband.
The small gathering applauds quietly. Alexei embraces us both, Mila wipes tears, Natasha smiles through her own emotion. Sergei clasps my shoulder, nods approval.
We sign the papers—legal marriage, registered with the state, making Sonya officially Sonya Petrova if she wants. She keeps Morozova professionally, and takes Petrova legally. Best of both worlds.
By 1:15 AM, we're in the car heading back to the mansion.
"Mrs. Petrova," I say quietly.
"Mr. Petrov," she responds, smiling.
"How does it feel?"
"Right. Terrifying. Perfect." She pauses. "I'm married in Elena's dress, carrying your child, and Anton is still out there somewhere. It's the strangest combination of joy and fear I've ever felt."
"Welcome to loving me," I say wryly.
She laughs, and the sound fills the car with lightness we haven't had in two weeks.
We arrive at the mansion at 1:45 AM.
Alexei and Mila head to their guest rooms—they'll stay until Monday morning before flying back to Chicago. Natasha retires to her suite. Sergei disappears to coordinate overnight security.
Sonya and I climb the stairs to the third floor.
Not the bedroom. The studio.
She stops in the doorway, looking at the space where she hasn't been allowed to move freely in thirteen days. Bed rest meant no dancing, no real movement, just lying still and letting her body heal from the trauma and stabilize the pregnancy.
"I can finally dance," she whispers.
