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“It's heavy,” I remark as they fasten it around my throat.

“Tradition,” one of them responds dismissively. “Every Petrov bride wears this on her wedding day.”

I wonder how many of those brides survived to see their first anniversary.

They start fussing again, but I excuse myself to the bathroom, dragging the monstrosity of a dress with me. Once inside, I pull the gun given to me by Mikhail’s doctor and secure it into bandsof my garter before returning to the women ready to fuss even more.

A sharp knock at the door silences the room. The stylists freeze, exchanging glances of barely concealed panic before the eldest moves to answer it.

Victor Petrov stands in the doorway, resplendent in a black tuxedo adorned with military-style medals across his chest. His silver hair is slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. For a man his age, he exudes power and virility that's both impressive and terrifying.

“Leave us,” he commands, and the stylists scatter without a backward glance.

Victor steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over me. “Turn around,” he instructs, making a small circular motion with his finger.

I comply, pivoting slowly, the weight of the dress making every movement feel heavy, intentional. The veil swishes softly against the marble floor as I complete the turn and face him again.

“Acceptable.” His attention lingers on the necklace, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “The diamonds were my grandmother’s. She wore them when she married into the Petrov name, as did my wife. As will you.”

“How many brides have worn this necklace to their execution?”

Victor's lips curve into something approximating a smile. “Only the ones who deserved it.” He approaches with measured steps, reaching out to adjust the veil where it frames my face. His fingers brush against my cheek. “I trust there will be no...complications today,” Victor continues, straightening one of the diamond pins in my hair. “You've proven yourself remarkably adaptable thus far. It would be a shame to see that resourcefulness go to waste.”

His fingers pause at the back of my neck, just above the diamond collar. “You witnessed Bianca's fate yesterday." The pressure of his touch increases slightly. “Remember what happens to those who are no longer useful to me.”

I swallow hard, the diamond collar suddenly feeling tighter around my throat.

“The Petrov family has no room for ornaments, only assets,” he continues, his voice almost gentle. “Assets that appreciate in value, like you and the children you'll bear. The others...well, you can guess the rest.”

I meet his stare through the veil, refusing to flinch despite the warning in his touch. “I understand, Victor.”

“Father,” he corrects, his fingers tightening slightly against my neck.

“Father,” I repeat, the word tasting like poison on my tongue.

Seemingly satisfied, he releases me and steps back, checking his watch. “It's time.”

Victor calls out to the guards stationed outside of her room. "Take her to the car."

The door swings open immediately, revealing two men in suits who enter with military precision. They flank me, not touching but close enough that escape would be impossible.

“I'll see you at the chapel,” Victor says, straightening his cuffs with meticulous attention. “Try not to disappoint me.”

He leaves without a backward glance, his footsteps fading down the marble corridor. The guards move closer, one extending his arm in a mockery of a gentlemanly escort.

"This way, Miss Rossi.”

I take his arm with as much dignity as I can muster, the constricting bodice making each breath shallow and deliberate. The second guard follows close behind as we move through Victor's palace.

Servants pause in their duties as we pass. They look on in awe and happiness. Their expressions are a lie, a mask as false as my own. I wonder how many of them are my grandfather's spies, watching and waiting for the moment when this farce implodes.

Outside, a white Rolls Royce gleams in the morning sun, its polished surface reflecting the palace like a distorted mirror. The chauffeur holds the door open, his white-gloved hands steady as I'm helped into the plush interior.

“Your security detail will follow in a separate vehicle,” the guard informs me before closing the door with a soft thud.

I'm alone for the first time since the preparations began. My fingers immediately go to my thigh, confirming the gun is still secure in my garter. The cold metal against my skin is a stark reminder of what's at stake today.

My watch vibrates against my wrist. The only allowance given since it nearly covered the bruise from Dmitri. I glance down, angling it beneath the voluminous skirts to read the message scrolling across its face.