The priest speaks. I barely hear him. My focus is on her.
Her breathing is shallow. Her fingers tighten around the flowers. She’s trying to keep from running, weighing her options. Smart. But too late.
I don’t move, don’t let my expression change.
I want her to wonder what I’m thinking. I want her to feel that uncertainty crawling up her spine, the realization settling in that no matter how much she wants to fight this, she’s already lost.
Her eyes dart to mine, just a flicker beneath the veil, but I catch it. The conflict, the resentment. The heat.
I smirk.
The priest begins. “Do you, Isabella Marquez, take Konstantin Belov to be your lawfully wedded husband…?”
Her fingers tighten around the bouquet. I can see her jaw clench through the sheer fabric of the veil.
Her throat moves as she swallows, her pulse hammering beneath the fragile skin there. A silent war rages inside her. I know the exact moment she realizes she’s going to say yes.
Defeat settles in her expression, but only for a second before she masks it with something else—anger.
Good. Let her fight it. Let her fight me.
I step closer, slow enough that she doesn’t realize she’s already backed herself into a corner. I lean in just enough for my breath to brush against the shell of her ear.
“Say yes,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “Or this will end… badly.”
She stiffens. A sharp inhale, the slight tremor of her fingers tightening around the bouquet. She’s considering her choices, but we both know there’s only one answer.
Her throat works as she swallows, and when she finally speaks, her voice cracks.
“I… do.”
There it is. The moment she seals her fate.
The priest beams like he hasn’t just officiated a contract that holds more weight than any legal document.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I don’t move right away. I let the moment stretch, let her feel the weight of her decision pressing down on her.
Then, I reach for the veil, slow and deliberate, like peeling back the last barrier between us.
Her lips are parted slightly, her breath uneven. Her pupils are blown wide—not just panic, but something else.
Anticipation.
Interesting.
I lean in, just close enough for her to feel the heat of my breath, close enough to watch her throat work as she swallows. She’s waiting for it.
But before I can claim my prize, a small, clear voice cuts through the priest’s well-rehearsed monotone.
“Wait!”
Every head in the room swivels. Isabella startles, blinking rapidly, and I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
Alya.
My daughter marches down the aisle, a tiny storm in a white dress, her pigtails bouncing with each determined step.
