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I meet her gaze in the mirror, forcing a smile that trembles a little too much at the edges.
Inside, my mind is a storm.
The weight of today.
The finality of this choice.
The knowledge that with each breath, each second, I’m moving closer to becoming someone’s wife — to standing beside Zasha Petrov as his partner, his equal, his match.
This isn’t a love story, I remind myself.
Well, not yet.
But I will make it one.
I’ll find a way to break through that steel-lined shell of his, to make him see me — really see me — not just as a political move, not just as a Delgado pawn, but as the woman who’s going to set his whole carefully controlled world on fire.
I take a slow, careful breath, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress.
The silk is cool beneath my palms, soft but strong, hugging every line of my body with elegant simplicity.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves, delicate and understated. A fitted waist, flowing into a small, graceful train. It may not be flashy, but it is certainly unforgettable.
I wanted to look like myself today — not a doll, not a display, not someone else’s idea of perfection. And as I study the reflection in front of me, a quiet spark flickers in my chest.
I am ready.
I adjust the delicate pearl earring, fingers trembling slightly as I fasten the clasp.
Breathe, Mara.
I force a slow inhale, smoothing the soft ivory fabric at my waist, feeling the nervous fluttering in my stomach twist tighter.
In the mirror, I catch my own reflection: sharp hazel eyes, lips painted a muted rose, dark hair swept elegantly back beneath the veil.
I can do this.
The door creaks open behind me. I glance up, expecting to see my mother or Luise.
Instead, it’s Cristóbal. He standing there, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. A knot forms immediately in my throat.
I already know — I already know — where this is going.
“Are you really doing this, Mara?” his voice cuts sharply across the room, sounding cold and accusatory.
I straighten slowly, turning to face him, carefully keeping my expression smooth.
Not today, please, I think desperately.
He takes another step in, dark eyes narrowed.
“So you’re really marrying into the Bratva,” he says, spitting the word like venom. “Zasha barely even knows you.”
His voice drops, thick with frustration.
“You’re making a mistake.”
His words land like tiny daggers, each one pricking just beneath the skin.