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I lean in slightly, muttering, “Just so I’m clear—am I being tried in absentia for alleged attempted murder that happened on American soil to two Russian citizens?” I tilt my head to look up at him, letting the bite in my tone speak for itself. “Because I’m pretty sure even Russian law still grants me the right to counsel and a fair trial.” I purse my lips as I see his brows rise in surprise. “Hey, maybe then someone will listen to me and actually ask me if I did it or not instead of accusing me of a crime based on biased assumptions and bruised ego.”

“Are you an attorney now?” Ruslan drawls.

“My sister is.” I shrug.

“I thought she was some sort of dancer in Vegas,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t stop walking. If anything, he picks up the pace, dragging me down another marble corridor that narrows and curves, deeper into the bowels of this fortress of legal horror.

“Sabrina is full of surprises,” I warn him, but he is no longer listening to me as he continues to drag me through the building.

We pass only two other people—gray-suited men with eyes like ice chips and expressions carved from stone.

The silence becomes oppressive. My boots click too loudly on the floor. The tension snaps taut between us.

Then, abruptly, we stop.

I’m turned sharply, pushed through a heavy wooden door, and blink against the sudden brightness. Rows of high windows send pale morning light streaking through dust motes in the air. A judge—ancient and gaunt, with a jaw like a rusted clamp—sits at a raised bench. A court clerk standing beside him. No gallery. No prosecution. No jury. No defense.

Just a single desk, two chairs.

And a folder is already sitting neatly at the edge.

“What the actual hell—” I start, but Ruslan's grip tightens again, and he's pulling me forward, pushing me toward the desk.

The judge looks up. “We are ready?”

Ruslan responds in perfect legal Russian. “Da. We are proceeding with expedited recognition under Article 27.4, clause seven.”

The judge grunts and flips open the folder. “Matrimonial union between Dragunov, Ruslan Damien, and Zorin, Lidiya. Verified identity. Verified intention.”

My blood freezes.

Matrimonial.

Union.

No.

No. No. No.

“Wait—” I snap, trying to step forward to appeal to the judge, but Ruslan pulls me back, his palm firm between my shoulder blades.

“This isn’t a trial,” I hiss, twisting toward him, panic finally breaking through my iron mask. “This is a wedding?”

Ruslan doesn’t even look at me. “Why else would we be here?” His dark eyes mock me.

“No!” I shake my head and look at the judge. “No!” I raise my voice, the words echoing through the room. “I’m not getting married. Not today… Not ever…”

The judge clears his throat. “Do you object to this wedding, Ms. Zorin?”

My voice catches in my throat.Zorin.He’s using my Russian name—the name tied to bloodlines, vaults, and legacies I never asked for.

“Object?” I echo, then laugh, bitter and sharp. “You mean, do I object to being dragged halfway across the world…”

“My fiancée is tired from the long flight from Vegas, your honor,” Ruslan cuts me off, sending me a dangerous look.

The judge blinks once. Ruslan’s hand doesn’t move.