“I don’t want to be a queen, Anya,” I said, setting the glass down so hard the champagne slopped over the rim. “I want to be a psychology student. I want to finish my Master’s. I want to go back to the library where the only thing I have to fear is a late fee, not a sniper’s bullet.”
Anya’s expression softened, the mask of the socialite slipping to reveal the friend I could always trust. She sat on the edge of the vanity, her silk dress rustling. “I know. But Mila, you saw what happened at the engagement party. You saw howfast they moved. If you walk out of here as Mila Petrov, you’re a ghost. If you walk out as Mila Lobanov, you’re a god.”
“Is that what Alexei thinks?” I asked, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “That he’s turning me into a god? Or is he just adding me to his collection of high-value assets?”
“He’s protecting you,” Anya insisted. “My brother… he isn’t cruel. He’s cold, yes. He’s strategic. He sees the world as a series of moves on a board. But he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t think it was the only way to keep you breathing. He’s not uncaring, Mila. I know him better than anyone.”
I walked to the window, the heavy silk of my gown hissing against the rug. I pulled back the velvet curtain just an inch. Below, I saw Dimitri—Alexei’s shadow—checking his watch. The sun caught the glint of a rifle on the roof of the garage.
I remembered my father. Lev Petrov. The man I had mourned for a decade, believing he was a closed chapter. But now, the monsters he had provoked were coming for me.
I bet he’s laughing from heaven right now.
A sharp, authoritative knock at the door made me jump. My heart leaped into my throat.
“It’s time,” a deep, gravelly voice announced from the hallway.
Anya straightened her dress and reached for my veil—a delicate, weightless cloud of lace that felt like a spider’s web. She pinned it into my hair, her fingers steady. “Deep breaths. Just like we practiced. You are Mila Lobanov now. The world doesn’t touch you unless you let it.”
She gave me one last look, a mixture of understanding and pride, and slipped out of the room to join the processional.
I was alone.
I thought of Alexei’s face, his dark auburn hair, the way his suits fit him like armor, the quiet, commanding presence that made the air in any room feel thin.
He was coming for me. Not to love me, but to claim me.
I walked toward the door, my heels clicking on the hardwood with the finality of a gavel.
I reached the door that led to the private wing where the ceremony would be held. My hand hovered over the handle.
For the umpteenth time, I thought about running. But where would I go? The Italians were outside. The Lobanovs were inside. I was a bird caught between two storms.
I remembered the way Alexei had looked at me when he said, “Marry me.” It hadn’t been a request. It hadn’t been a plea. It had been an ultimatum.
I took a breath, the silk of my dress tight against my ribs. I looked down at my hands—they were trembling, but my grip on the door handle was firm.
I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t built for blood and shadows. But as I opened the door to meet my fate, I felt something shift inside me. A hardening. The closing of a door to the girl I used to be.
I walked back to the mirror one last time before leaving.
This wasn’t a beginning. It was a declaration.
“This isn’t love,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice a jagged edge in the silence. “This is war.”
The doors to the grand hall didn’t just open; they retreated, surrendering to the weight of the moment.
I took a breath that felt like swallowing glass as I took my first step. The walk down the aisle was shorter than I had imagined, yet every step felt like a mile across a minefield. There was no soft organ music, no flowers, no rows of smiling faces from my childhood, no tradition. It seemed the Lobanovshad stripped away the pretense of a typical wedding in favor of something far more honest.
The room was stark, filled with the hum of silent, powerful men and the cold gleam of marble. At the end of that long, white-carpeted path stood Alexei.
He was a man carved from the very stone that surrounded us. In his black three-piece suit, he looked less like a groom and more like an eclipse—dark, inevitable, and cold. His auburn hair was brushed back with lethal precision, and his hazel eyes were fixed on me with a focus so intense it felt physical. I tried not to think of the last time those eyes darkened with desire as he kissed me, but I couldn’t help myself.
As I drew closer, my heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird pleading for release. I looked into his eyes, searching for the monster, for the strategist, for the tyrant. For one heartbeat, as I stepped onto the dais to stand before him, I swore I saw something else. A flicker. A momentary softening of the ice. A dark, swirling depth I didn’t have the vocabulary to understand yet. It wasn't love—not yet—but it was something hungry. Something that saw me not just as an asset, but as the only thing in the room that mattered.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the marble mask returned.
There was no priest. There were no "dearly beloveds." If I were being honest, it wasn’t exactly surprising. In the Lobanov world, power was the only deity they worshipped.
