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“The bride and groom will now ascend,” the priest announces, gesturing toward the altar steps.

Dmitri tugs me forward, the abrupt movement making me stumble slightly on the first step. His grip tightens, steadying me with a roughness that makes Victor's lips twitch with what might be approval. I force my feet to move, each step taking me closer to a future I have no intention of living.

Behind us, I hear Z and Oz take their positions at the foot of the altar steps, their presence a small comfort as I face the two Petrov men who intend to own me.

The priest begins the ceremony in Russian, his voice echoing through the chapel's vaulted ceiling. I understand enough to follow along—declarations of holy union, promises of fidelity. Words that mean nothing in this mockery of marriage.

Victor’s silver stare sweeps over the assembled guests, lingering briefly on my grandfather. If he recognizes Mikhail, he gives no indication.

I steal a glance at Luca and find him already looking at me. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him. But he’s alive. My brother is alive. That truth settles like steel in my spine, just as Dmitri’s fingers tighten around mine.

“We will now exchange vows,” the priest announces in accented English, gesturing for Dmitri to begin.

Dmitri turns to face me, lifting my veil. His features remain unreadable, lips pulling into a faint curve that could be mistaken for a smile by anyone who didn’t know better.

“I, Dmitri Victor Petrov,” he begins, his voice echoing through the chapel, “take you, Vesper Rossi, to be my wife.” The words fall from his mouth with the smoothness of something long rehearsed, completely devoid of warmth. “I vow to protect what is mine, to strengthen our bloodlines, and to ensure our legacy endures through the children you will bear me.”

Every word drips with possession. No love. No hint of partnership. Just legacy and control. He doesn’t flinch or falter as he continues, delivering vows that sound more like a business agreement than a promise made before God.

“Your family's strength will become Petrov strength. Your body will nurture Petrov heirs. Your loyalty will belong solely to me and the empire we will build together.”

The chapel remains silent as his final words hang in the air. Victor nods with approval.

“And now, the bride,” the priest prompts, turning his face toward me.

I take a measured breath, the corset restricting my lungs as I prepare to speak.

“I, Vesper Rossi,” my voice carries clearly through the chapel, stronger than I feel, “take nothing from you or your family.”

A collective gasp ripples through the assembled guests. Dmitri's fingers tighten painfully around mine as Victor's expression darkens to thunderous rage.

I yank my hands from Dmitri's crushing grip and take a deliberate step back.

“I will not be another decoration in your family's collection of broken women," I continue, my voice gaining strength with each word. "I will not bear children to continue your legacy of violence and control.”

The chapel erupts. Victor’s face contorts into something almost unrecognizable, twisted with such raw rage that spittle gathers at the corners of his mouth. “What is the meaning of this?” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“This is your reckoning, Victor.”

The chapel falls into stunned silence at my declaration. Victor's face contorts with rage, a vein pulsing at his temple as he takes a menacing step toward me.

“Guards!” he barks, his voice echoing through the sacred space.

Armed men materialize, weapons drawn, as they converge on the altar. Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked—my grandfather's men revealing themselves among Victor's security detail.

“I wouldn’t,” comes Mikhail’s voice, calm and cold as he rises from his pew. “My men have been in your household for years, Victor. Did you really believe I’d let you live after what you took from me? Do you think I’d give you my granddaughter?”

Recognition flickers across Victor’s face as he truly registers who my grandfather is. “Mikhail,” he breathes, disbelief and rage tightening his jaw and stiffening his posture.

“Get her!” Victor roars.

Dmitri lunges, but Z is faster. He vaults up the altar steps and slams his fist into his cousin’s jaw with a sickening crack. Dmitri stumbles back, blood spilling from his split lip.

Oz appears at my side, a gun already in his hand. He fires once. The shot hits Dmitri square in the chest. Blood blossoms across his crisp white shirt as he collapses.

“Dmitri!” Victor bellows, his voice tearing through the air like a war cry. “Kill them! Kill them all!”

Pandemonium erupts. Victor’s men surge toward Mikhail’s with ruthless force. Bullets rip through the stained-glass windows, the thunderous blasts sending vibrant, razor-edged shards raining down on the terrified wedding guests.