“I do,” Mikhail says, vowing himself over to me without blinking.
“And do you, Cecilia, take Mikhail to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?”
I don’t think about it—there would be no point. We’re as good as married already. All I can hope for is that one day, the lie won’t come back to bite me.
“I do.”
The ring box is brought out, and Mikhail takes out the one he has for me. Without breaking eye contact, I offer him my hand, and he takes it—dark ink and scars entwining with my unblemished skin. He doesn’t squeeze or jerk me, but his touch is firm, a hint of the possessive power that begins to seep out of him.
And then?—
Cold, luscious metal slides around my finger.
I peer down, sucking in a breath when the deep blue of a marquise-shaped diamond flickers, coiling around a platinum band. Blue. Like the depths of the ocean. Like my home.
The backs of my eyes burn with nostalgia, and maybe a bit of gratitude, but I’m quick to shut down the emotion as I pickup the remaining ring. Gratitude for what? Letting him take me away and shove me into a cold, dark world I know nothing about? I look at his empty hand and hesitate a second too long before he takes his wedding band from me and slides it on by himself. Then, with that same hand, he lifts my chin to meet his eyes. The priest continues with the blessing, his voice deep and loud behind the murmur of Mikhail’s dominance as he says in my ear?—
“Finally. You’re mine.”
The reception goes muchas I expected.
A string quartet plays Mozart from across the spacious restaurant, burying the awkward silence of two groups of people who want nothing to do with one another. The tables—bright and lush with both Russian and Italian appetizers—were quickly besieged when we arrived. Save for Victoria and Wolfgang, who danced earlier, no one seems to be enjoying the music.
I watched them from my seat, jealous and hollow, seeing how utterly obsessed they are with each other. He held her hand, grabbed her neck and kissed her mouth. Looked at her like she was both his religion and his undoing. Every bit of his madness, she took it like it was giving her life.
It was beautiful, and it was sad…because I know that isn’t what my future looks like.
As I sit at the head table alone, running a finger around the rim of a half-empty glass, Cesare’s figure catches my eye. He keeps moving around, talking with my father’sCapi, occasionally throwing me quick glances until he eventually makes his way over.
Slowly, I stand, my brows drawing together, relief washing over me at seeing him again.
“I’d congratulate you, but I don’t know if either of us appreciates the circumstances,” he says, sketching a bittersweet smile. He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit, his blue eyes bright and attentive, like always. The only thing out of place is the left hand at his side, covered by a metal prosthetic—it’s amputated.
“I didn’t use it much anyway,” he says, lifting it up.
My stomach churns. “Oh, Cesare…I’m so sorry for what he did to you. He’s a monster.”
“He’s my boss. I knew the consequences.”
“And yet, you still protected me.” I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger like that.”
“I’d do it again if that meant getting you out of this alliance. In the end, it didn’t even matter, though. I failed. He still got you.”
“No, it’s not your fault,” I say, my chest squeezing at his words. “You did more for me than anyone else. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you all those years. Thank you, Cesare. For everything.”
He nods slowly, looking out into the crowd before lowering his gaze back to me, his eyes straining. “Has he…done anything?”
“No. I’m alright. I don’t think he wants to hurt me. Or be around me too much.”
“Thank God for that.” He runs his hand through his hair.
I look away. “Yeah…”
Maybe this is for the best. Maybe my life on the East Coast won’t be much different than it was at home if Mikhail won’t be around. Another depressing thought, but I should be grateful. Things could’ve been much worse for me.
“How about a dance? It’s still your only wedding, after all,” Cesare says, extending his good hand out to me.
The invitation is friendly—a reprieve from all the chaos swarming in my mind—but I don’t even get to respond. Because my husband, whom I haven’t seen since the ceremony, appears next to me, wrapping his arm around my waist possessively.
