But I don’t. I just grip my bouquet tighter (white roses and lilies, the same flowers that covered Alexei’s grave, how fucking fitting) and descend the stairs one careful step at a time.
This was supposed to be joyous. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I used to dream about my wedding day when I was little.
The white dress, the flowers, the church filled with people who loved me.
Walking down the aisle to the man I loved, seeing his face light up when he saw me, promising to spend our lives together.
I had imagined walking down the aisle to Alexei Volkov. His blue eyes would brighten, that beautiful smile spread across his face. He would whisper “You’re so beautiful” as I reached his side. Idreamedof being Mrs. Volkov.
I wasn’t specific enough with my wishes as Iamgoing to be Mrs. Volkov. But instead of it being Mrs. Alexei Volkov, it’ll be Mrs.DimitriVolkov. The man whose cold gray eyes promise nothing but hatred. The man who will never love me, who will never want me, who will only ever see me as the enemy.
And I’m carrying a secret that could get me killed.
My hand wants to drift to my stomach again, but I force it to stay at my side. I can’t draw attention or let anyone suspect. I’m probably about six weeks along now so there’s nothing to see or feel, but the knowledge burns inside me like a brand.
I want to scream it at all of them. I’m carrying a Volkov baby! I’m pregnant with Alexei's child! You killed the father of my baby!
But terror keeps me silent. Because if I tell them—if anyone finds out—what happens then? Does Dimitri kill me for carrying his brother’s child? Does my father try to force me to get rid of it? Does the fragile peace shatter completely?
I don’t know and I’m too afraid to find out.
So I keep walking. Keep smiling. Keep pretending this is all normal and fine and exactly what I want.
The wedding ceremony takes place at city hall.
It’s not the beautiful church I’d always envisioned. I’m not surrounded by friends and loved ones who came to celebrate. There’s no music and flowers and joy.
Instead, I get a sterile government building with fluorescent lights and beige walls.
A judge who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, and two families who hate each other, separated by an invisible line down the middle of the room.
Armed guards are everywhere. Volkov men on one side, Ashford men on the other. All of them tense, hands resting near concealed weapons, ready for violence to break out at any moment.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a hostage exchange.
And I’m the hostage.
Dimitri arrives exactly on time, flanked by four of his men. He’s wearing a black suit and of course it’s black, because even at his wedding he looks like he’s attending a funeral. The fabric is expensive, perfectly tailored to his massive frame, but there’s nothing celebratory about it. He looks like death itself walking through those doors.
He doesn’t look at me. Not when he enters or when he takes his place beside me at the front of the room.
He doesn’t even look when the judge begins the ceremony with words that sound hollow and meaningless.
I stand beside this stranger—this man who will be my husband in minutes—and he won’t even acknowledge my existence.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating than he was at the funeral. Taller, broader, radiating a kind of controlled violence that makes my skin prickle with instinctive fear. I can smell his cologne (it’s heady with cedar and smoke) and feel the heat radiating off his body.
He’s real. This is real. In a few minutes, I’ll be his wife.
The judge is saying something about marriage, about commitment, about joining two people in matrimony but the words wash over me like white noise. I can’t focus or think. I can only stare straight ahead and try to keep breathing.
“Dimitri Volkov,” the judge says, “do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
There’s a pause. A long, horrible pause where I think maybe—maybe—he’ll say no.
Maybe he’ll refuse and this nightmare will end right here.
Then he speaks, and his voice is like ice scraping over stone.
