Anton
The thing about control is that most people think it's about staying calm.
It's not.
It's about what you do with the fury when it hits. Where you put it. How you hold it so tight inside your chest that no one ever sees it move.
Artem stands across from me in his study, arms folded, jaw set. He looks like our father. More so every year. Same broad shoulders, same hard mouth, same way of delivering news like he's handing you a loaded gun and expecting you not to flinch.
"The council has made its decision," he says.
I don't react.
"You'll marry the Nevolin girl. Kira. The arrangements are already in place."
I still don't react. Not outwardly. Inside, something hot and violent coils tight in my gut, but I've had a lifetime of practice keeping that off my face.
"When?" I ask.
"Saturday."
Four days. Four days and I'll have a wife I didn't choose, a marriage I didn't want, and a leash around my neck disguised as a wedding ring on my finger.
"And if I refuse?"
Artem's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts. Something tired. "You know what happens if you refuse."
I do. The council doesn't make requests. They give orders, and when the Orlov family is already on thin ice, those orders carry the weight of a death sentence. Lev is already gone to an accident years ago. We can't afford to lose anyone else.
"They want proof," Artem says. "That we're cooperating. That we're falling in line."
"Proof," I repeat.
"A marriage. A union they sanctioned. And..." He pauses. Looks away. "Consummation. They want to know it's binding on every level."
The fury tightens another notch.
"So, I'm to breed a stranger," I say, "to prove we're obedient."
"You're to marry her. And yes. The rest of it." Artem meets my eyes again, and for a second I see the brother underneath the head of the family. The one who carried me home when I was seven and split my head open on the ice. The one who sat beside Lev's casket and didn't leave until he carried his brother to his grave. "I wouldn't ask if there was another way."
"You're not asking."
He holds my gaze. "No. I'm not."
I stand there for a long moment, the silence thick between us. Then I nod once.
"Saturday," I say.
And I walk out of the room before the rage eats through the last of my control.
Kira
The dress is beautiful.
White silk that glitters like moonlight, fitted at the waist, with long sleeves that cover the goosebumps on my arms. My mother chose it. She also chose the veil, the shoes, the lipstick shade, and the pearl earrings that belonged to her mother. Everything about me today has been curated, selected, arranged.
Just like the marriage itself.
