Because she’s not where I can see her.
My jaw tightens at the sound of her name somewhere behind me—two guests murmuring like I can’t hear them.
Valeria.
Something in my body reacts before I can stop it. A subtle tightening in my chest. A focus I don’t welcome.
I exhale slowly through my nose and force myself to stay still.
This isn’t supposed to be personal.
It was never supposed to be personal.
The room continues to settle behind me. Chairs shift into place. Conversations drop to lower tones. The music swells softly, filling the hall with something ceremonial, something final.
I keep my gaze forward, expression controlled.
But my thoughts don’t stay with the ceremony.
They drift—uninvited—back to her.
To the last time I saw her clearly.
To the way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid of consequences. Like she would still choose this, even knowing what it means.
My hand flexes once at my side before I still it again.
This is a contract.
A strategy.
A consolidation of power.
That is all it is supposed to be.
I am aware of the strange path that led to this moment. Only days ago, I was convinced Valeria Petrova was a potential threat to the organization. Now she’s about to become my wife.
The thought should feel absurd.
It doesn’t.
The doors at the far end of the hall open.
Everything in the room shifts at once—sound, movement, breath. Conversations die instantly, like someone has cut a wire.
Valeria steps in.
And the silence deepens.
It’s not just attention she draws. It’s stillness.
Her wedding dress catches every eye in the room immediately, but I register it last—because for a second, I’m locked on her face.
Composed. Beautiful. Ethereal.
Then my gaze drops.
Matteo’s work has transformed her. Not into something fragile or decorative, but into something insurmountable. Elegant lines, precise structure—beauty shaped like authority. Like she belongs in this room full of men who think they understand power.
