***
I oversee every detail of the wedding preparations personally.
The contract is reviewed line by line. I ensure Elena’s legal status is ironclad—protected under my name, shielded from any rival families who might still consider her a liability. No loopholes. No ambiguities. She becomes untouchable the moment the marriage is official.
Guards are assigned specifically for her protection. Men I trust, who understand that touching her without explicit permission means death. They don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t get familiar. Treat her with the respect due to someone who will soon carry the Sharov name.
The ring I order myself.
No jeweler’s consultation. No committee decision. I choose a simple platinum band, heavy enough to feel like a claim, elegant enough to suit her. Inside, I have it engraved with the date. Permanent. Unchangeable.
Mine.
When a tailor arrives to take measurements for Elena’s dress, I send him away and do it myself.
She stands in the middle of her room, arms slightly raised, while I measure her waist, her hips, the length from shoulder to hem. My fingers linger at her wrist, feeling her pulse jump under my touch. I note the curve of her waist, the way the fabric will need to accommodate hips that flare just slightly, the slender lines of her shoulders.
She’s beautiful. I’ve known this since the auction, but touching her—even clinically, professionally—makes the knowledge visceral.
She will belong to me soon. Legally, officially, completely.
The thought makes something dark and possessive coil low in my gut.
“Stand still,” I tell her when she shifts nervously.
“You’re taking too long.”
“I’m being thorough.” My hand settles at her waist, measuring the span. Her breath catches. “Nervous?”
“No.”
Liar. Her pulse is racing, her skin flushed. I can feel the tension vibrating through her.
I step back before I do something stupid. Before the professional detachment I’m maintaining cracks completely.
“We’re done,” I say, making notes on measurements. “The dress will be ready in time.”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“You will.”
“How can you know—”
“I know you, Elena. What you like, what suits you, what will make you look exactly as you should on our wedding day.” I meet her eyes. “Trust me or don’t. Either way, the outcome is the same.”
She glares at me, furious and helpless. “I hate when you say that.”
“I know.” I move to the door. “Get some rest. Preparations accelerate tomorrow.”
I leave before she can argue further. Before I give in to the urge to stay, to push this conversation into territory I’m not ready to navigate.
***
The night before the date is finalized, I find her standing at the balcony doors in her room.
She doesn’t hear me enter. Too focused on the view outside—the gates, the guards, the security that keeps her contained. She’s wearing the robe again, hair loose, shoulders tense with tension that never fully leaves her.
I don’t announce myself. Just move closer, stopping a few feet behind her. Close enough that she can feel my presence, the heat of me pressing into her space.
