Dimitri Volkov’s wife.
And I’ve never felt more terrified in my entire life.
The reception is pathetic.
There’s no other word for it. It’s being held in a conference room in the courthouse they’ve hastily decorated with white tablecloths and flower arrangements that do nothing to hide the institutional feel of the space.
Both families cluster in separate corners, as far from each other as possible while still technically being at the same event.
The Volkovs on one side with their dark suits and darker expressions.
The Ashfords on the other, my mother still crying quietly and my father looking ten years older than he did this morning.
It’s awkward as hell. No one’s eating the catered food. No one’s pretending to celebrate. Everyone just stands there, tense and waiting, like they expect gunfire to break out at any moment.
Konstantin Volkov—Dimitri’s uncle, the silver-haired man I recognize from the funeral—stands up to give a toast. His champagne glass catches the light as he raises it.
“To new beginnings,” he says, his voice smooth and practiced. “May this union bring peace and prosperity to both our families.”
The words sound nice and diplomatic, like this is a normal wedding toast.
But the way he says it—the slight edge to his voice, the cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—makes it feel like a threat.
He’s reminding everyone what happens if the peace breaks.
He’s saying,We have your daughter now. Behave.
A few people raise their glasses halfheartedly. Most don’t bother.
Dimitri doesn’t even acknowledge the toast. Hell, he doesn’t acknowledge me at all. He stands across the room talking to his men, his back to me, like I don’t exist. Like he didn’t just marry me twenty minutes ago.
I sit alone at the head table, a plate of untouched food in front of me, wearing my beautiful white dress that now feels like a costume.
It feels like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. I feel like an exhibit, like something on display. The hostage bride. The peace offering. The sacrifice.
My mother tries to come over to me twice, but my father stops her both times, shaking his head. It’s too dangerous, there’s too much tension. It’s better to keep the families separated.
So I sit here alone, and I wait, and I try not to think about what comes next.
After an hour that feels like ten, Dimitri finally crosses the room to me. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those cold gray eyes and jerks his head toward the door.
Time to go.
I stand on shaking legs and look across the room at my family one last time. My mother is crying again. My sisters look confused and scared. My father still won’t meet my eyes.
Then Dimitri’s hand lands on the small of my back—heavy, possessive, steering me toward the exit—and I’m leaving. Leaving my family. Leaving my old life. Leaving everything I’ve ever known.
The drive to Dimitri’s estate is suffocating.
We sit in complete silence in the back of his SUV, a driver I don’t know behind the wheel, two of Dimitri’s men in the front passenger seat.
I’m pressed as close to my door as possible, trying to maintain some distance between us, but the back seat isn’t that big and I can feel the heat of him beside me.
He stares out his window, jaw clenched, and radiating tension. His hands are curled into fists on his thighs, and I remember what the character profile said—those large, calloused hands that can kill.
I swallow heavily and try to think of something to say, anything to break this horrible silence. But what is there to say? Niceweather we’re having? Thanks for marrying me? Sorry my family killed your brother?
The last thought makes my throat tighten. I open my mouth before I can stop myself.
