“This is getting ridiculous,” he snaps. “You’re seeing a doctor.”
He’s right, I do need to see a doctor but not for the reason he thinks. “No,” I say firmly.
“That wasn’t a request,” Dimitri says sharply.
“I don’t need a doctor,” I insist, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “It’s just stress. It’ll pass.”
“Stress doesn’t make you vomit every day.”
“How would you know?” I’m too exhausted to be careful anymore. “You’re not here. You avoid this house like it’s infected. You only show up for dinner to remind me how much you hate me. So don’t pretend you care about my health.”
Something flashes across his face—hurt? Guilt?—but it’s gone before I can identify it.
“Go to bed,” he says finally. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”
My hackles rise at being treated like a child. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Vera.” My name on his lips is a warning. “Go. To. Bed.”
I don’t have the energy to fight anymore. I turn and climb the stairs, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way.
Two days later, I’m in the library, sitting in my window seat with a book I’m not reading, when Dimitri appears in the doorway. He’s dressed formally in a dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. Business clothes. His expression is carefully neutral.
“Get dressed," he says. “Something appropriate. We have a meeting.”
I look up from my book. “A meeting?”
“A joint family meeting. Konstantin called it. Territory divisions, trade routes, all the boring details of making sure this peace treaty actually works.” He checks his watch. “We leave in thirty minutes.”
My stomach drops and it’s not from nausea. “You want me to come?”
He looks annoyed. “You’re required to come. You’re the living symbol of this peace, remember? The bridge between our families. Both sides need to see that you’re..” He trails off, searching for the word. “Alive. Unharmed. Proof that the treaty is holding.”
“I’m not going,” I say immediately. The thought of seeing my family—of my father, of Uncle Marcus—makes me want to vomit again.
“Yes, you are.” His tone brooks no argument. “This isn’t negotiable. You’re my wife. You attend family meetings with me. That’s how this works.”
“I can’t.” My voice cracks. “Please. Don’t make me face them. Not yet.”
His expression shifts and softens almost imperceptibly, but then it hardens again. “Thirty minutes,” he says firmly. “Wear the gray dress. It looks…” He pauses. “Appropriate.”
He leaves before I can argue further.
I make it to my room before the panic really sets in. I’m going to see my father. My family. The people I haven’t spoken to since the wedding, since they sold me to the Volkovs to save their own skins. The people who killed Alexei.
The thought of being in the same room with both families, with all that rage and hatred and violence, makes me want to crawl under my bed and never come out.
But I don’t have a choice. I never have a choice.
So I dress in the gray dress Dimitri specified. It’s conservative, expensive, and exactly the kind of thing a mob wife wears to important meetings. I do my makeup carefully, trying to hide the dark circles and the pallor. I style my hair back in a neat bun, and look at myself in the mirror. I barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks like someone who’s survived something terrible.
I suppose I have.
Dimitri is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes sweep over me. “Good. Let’s go.”
The drive is silent. We’re in the back of his SUV, the same one from our wedding day, with the same driver and the same guards. Dimitri stares out his window, radiating tension.
