The hairdresser behind me fumbles with a pin, cursing softly.
“You can call me Bella,” I offer, not knowing what else to say to this tiny harbinger of my new reality.
Alya considers this, tapping her finger against her chin.
“Isabella is prettier. More elegant.” She pronounces “elegant” like she’s tested the word extensively. “But Bella is easier. I’ll decide later which one I’ll use.”
“Ten minutes!” Natasha cries, her voice rising an octave.
The veil appears—a gossamer cloud that costs more than my college education. Two women carefully arrange it over my newly constructed updo, pinning it with what feels like industrial-strength staples.
A shift in the air—more than just the perfume of hairspray and fresh roses—announces the arrival of someone new. The door opens with the smooth glide of wealth and control, and the energy in the room changes. Even Natasha, who has spent the last half hour barking orders like a drill sergeant, stills.
The woman steps in with the grace of a queen entering court. Tall, elegant, and poised at 5’8”, she moves with an effortless confidence that somehow makes my perfectly fitted dress feel suddenly constricting. Platinum blonde hair is swept into an immaculate chignon, not a strand out of place, like she was sculpted rather than born. Her light blue eyes—striking yet burdened with a quiet sadness—assess me without a flicker of emotion.
The scent of something expensive and understated drifts toward me—white florals, hints of vanilla, and something crisp and clean beneath it. It’s the kind of scent that lingers in luxury cars and on silk scarves wrapped just once around a graceful neck.
She doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, she crosses the room, the soft rustle of her gown—something conservative, classic, the color of moonlight—barely breaking the tense silence. She stops beside Alya, who straightens just a fraction, the way a soldier instinctively falls into line.
Our eyes meet.
Something sharp and knowing flickers in hers. She tilts her chin up, studying me like she’s measuring more than just the fabric and rhinestones. There’s no hostility, no overt warmth either—just an unreadable assessment that makes my stomach tighten.
Then, just as deliberately, she reaches up and adjusts the diamond pendant at her throat, fingertips lingering over the necklace as if weighing something unspoken.
“It’s time.”
Natasha moves fast, like she’s been snapped back into motion. She rushes toward the woman, dipping her head in deference.
“Yes, Mrs. Belov. The bride is ready.”
4
Konstantin
The taste of her taco lingers on my tongue—salt, spice, and a hint of lime. Not what I expected to sample on my wedding day, but there’s a certain poetry to it. I savor it like a promise. Like a claim.
The heavy doors swing open. Every head turns. Every guest holds their breath.
And there she is.
Isabella Marquez.
She walks forward, her movements careful, controlled—like a woman carrying the weight of a choice she already regrets. The dress is an intricate cage of satin and lace designed to make her look soft, delicate. A trick. Because there’s nothing delicate about this woman.
Her face is hidden beneath the veil, but I don’t need to see her to know exactly what she’s thinking. It’s in the way her grip tightens around the bouquet. In the way her shoulders are pulledback, rigid with defiance. She’s barely holding it together, and that pleases me more than it should.
Three hundred people in this room, and not one of them matters. Not the politicians pretending not to fear me. Not the old money socialites sipping champagne like this is just another high-profile merger.
This isn’t a wedding. This is a contract. A war won before the first shot was fired.
My mother stands at the front row, Alya beside her. My sons flank them, uncomfortable in their suits but impeccably behaved. They’ve been taught well. My daughter catches my eye and gives an almost imperceptible nod. Her mission—successful. The bride delivered, somewhat intact.
Isabella moves toward me with each step measured by the music. I note the unfamiliar shoes, the slightly uneven gait. The small, almost invisible hitch in her step that betrays discomfort. Pain, perhaps. I make a mental note to have words with Natasha about that.
No one hurts what’s mine. Not even in the process of preparing her for me.
She reaches the altar, stopping just a breath away from me. Close enough to feel her heat, close enough to hear the sharp inhale she takes as she looks up—finally looks at me.
