I look like a bride.
I look like someone who’s survived, who’s dared to hope, who’s standing on the edge of something terrifying and wonderful all at once.
“You’re ready,” Galina declares.
I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes drifting down to the ring on my finger. Leonid had slipped it on so confidently that night, as if it had always belonged there. The emerald glints faintly in the soft glow of the firelight, the diamonds catching the light with a subtle brilliance. I twist it absently, marveling at how something so beautiful, so intricate, could feel so heavy. Not in weight, but in meaning.
“My mother’s,” he’d said, his voice low, reverent. His fingers had lingered over mine for just a moment longer than necessary, his gaze steady and unguarded. “She’d love you. She always wanted someone who wasn’t afraid of me. Someone strong enough to hold her place. You’d make her proud.”
I’d nearly laughed—his mother would be proud ofme? But the way he said it, with such quiet certainty, broke something open inside me. Tears had stung my eyes, unwelcome and unbidden, because I’d never had a mother to make proud. My own had died the day I was born, leaving behind only my father’s bitterness and a hollow space in my chest I’d never been able to fill.
I press my thumb to the cool metal, feeling the slight snugness of the band around my finger. It fits perfectly, as though it had been waiting all these years for this moment, for me. A part of me hates how much that thought lingers, how it feels like something inside me wants to believe it.
A faint sound pulls me out of my thoughts.
Footsteps echo faintly outside the door. Then, three soft knocks. I barely manage to exhale before the door creaks open, and Kayla steps in.
She’s dressed beautifully, but simply—a deep wine-red wool dress, warm and practical against the snowy chill outside. A soft cashmere shawl wraps around her shoulders, and her dark hair is pinned back in a sleek, no-nonsense bun. Her ever-present calm feels grounding in the chaos of my emotions.
Her eyes sweep over me with quiet approval before she speaks.
“SeñoritaClara,” she says, her voice soft but clear, touched by her lilting accent. “You look…hermosa. Truly.”
“Thank you, Kayla,” I whisper. The way her gaze lingers on me makes my heart ache in a way I’m not prepared for. Like how a mother might have looked at me, proud and loving. It’s not the kind of look I grew up knowing, and the unfamiliar warmth in it makes my chest feel tight.
Galina steps into view behind me, her sharp gray eyes catching the subtle tremble in my hands.
“None of that,” she chides, her voice firm but fond as she places a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Nyet, nyet, no crying now.”
I tilt my head back, blinking furiously to stop the tears from falling, my hands fanning my face in a desperate attempt at composure.
“Not crying,” I insist, though my voice betrays me. “Just… blinking. A lot.”
Kayla steps closer, her calm presence grounding me as she holds out a bouquet wrapped in ivory satin ribbon. It’s breathtaking—ivory roses nestled against white ranunculus, their soft petals framed by sprigs of silver-gray eucalyptus and delicate accents of blue thistle. The arrangement feels both delicate and strong, like a perfect reflection of this moment.
“For you,Señorita,” Kayla says. “You deserve to be happy.”
I glance back at the mirror, taking in the reflection one last time. The gown flows around me like liquid light, its lace embroidery catching the soft glow of the fire. The veil drapes perfectly, and the bouquet feels steady in my hands.
For a moment, I let myself imagine Jake standing behind me, his teasing voice cutting through the quiet.
You look like a million bucks, bug.
I smile at the thought, the ache of missing him mingling with the strange peace settling over me.
Galina gives me a small nudge toward the door, her hands firm but kind. “Time to go,moya lyubov.”
Kayla doesn’t leave. She stands by the door, waiting with quiet patience as I take one last deep breath. My heart races, but it’s steadier now, the weight of the bouquet grounding me.
I nod to my reflection, determination flickering in my chest. “I’m ready.”
72
Leonid
"Blayt. Stop fucking fidgeting,” Ludis growls. “You’re making me dizzy.”
“Idi nahui,” I mutter, but my fingers still their restless tapping against my thigh. The golden Alexander McQueen cufflinks catch the late afternoon light, reminding me of the way Clara’s eyes gleam when she’s plotting my murder.
