"Maybe she's got tricks in the sack."
"What a waste of those Jimmy Choo heels."
My cheeks burned, shame scorching through me like wildfire. I wanted to hunch over, disappear into a crack in the floor.
But I couldn't. I bit my lip hard and stared down the red carpet.
Kirill Orlov waited at the altar.
He rocked a tailored black tux, tie knotted perfectly, hair slicked back, face all sharp edges. Sunlight streamed through the windows, haloing him like some saint.
He turned, locking eyes with me through the crowd. For a second, the hate vanished.
This scene had haunted my dreams forever—that untouchable man in the light, waiting. Right now, it felt so real, I almost forgot the cold deal behind it.
I was marrying him. A month ago, it was just a wild fantasy.
I walked toward him, step by step, until Peter handed me off.
Kirill looked down, his gaze sweeping my face.
"You look decent," he murmured.
His voice tingled in my ear, and I blushed hard. At least he hadn't shamed me in front of everyone.
The priest kicked off the vows.
Words about love and loyalty echoed through the packed church. Bitterness twisted in my gut—every line mocked what we really had.
This was a transaction. Just business, no heart.
"Mr. Kirill Orlov," the priest said, closing his Bible. "Do you take Miss Harper Evans to be your wife? In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, to love and cherish until death do you part?"
Kirill's eyes dropped to the floor. Silence stretched.
The whispers died. Every stare stabbed my back like pins.
Why wasn't he saying it?
My heart hammered, panic flooding me like ice water.
Was he backing out? Right here, in front of everyone, realizing how ridiculous this was?
My hands sweated again.
Please, Kirill, don't.
I stared at him, begging with my eyes.
Don't make me a joke. Even if it's fake, for Olga's sake, say something.
I squeezed his hand, nails digging in.
He turned.
His gaze hit my face, catching the tears brimming, my lips quivering.
His brow twitched—the first real emotion all day.
