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A soft sound draws my attention. I open my eyes, and there stands my father. His powerful frame fills the corridor, dressed sharply in a dark, tailored suit, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and something more fragile.
When our eyes meet, his mouth pulls into a small, rare smile. A smile that is always reserved for my mother and me.
“Are you ready, hija?” he asks gently, his voice softer than usual, rough around the edges.
For a heartbeat, I can’t speak. The little girl inside me longs to throw herself into his arms, eager to freeze time, even if just for a moment. But the woman standing here — the woman in this gown, with her head held high, understands that she must move forward.
I nod firmly. “I’m ready.”
He steps closer, offering me his arm. I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of him, the years of protection and fierce love that have shaped this moment.
He presses a brief kiss to my temple, murmuring something too low for me to catch — but the warmth in his voice is enough.
I take another deep breath as the double doors swing open, and the music starts to play.
A hush ripples across the room, a collective inhale as the guests rise, turning toward the entrance. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and step forward — one measured step at a time, the soft silk of my dress whispering against the floor.
My heart pounds, not with fear, but with anticipation and determination. Because in just a few moments, I’ll stand before Zasha Petrov—and no matter what anyone thinks, no matter what doubts linger in the room, I know why I’m here. I have dreamed of standing beside Zasha as his wife ever since I was seventeen, and now I’m ready to seize my dreams by the horns.
The music swells, but to me, it’s just a faint hum, like waves breaking somewhere far away.
My heart pounds so hard it’s a physical thing — in my throat, in my fingertips, deep in my chest.
This is it.
I take the first step forward, my father steady beside me. And then I see him at the altar.
Tall. Composed. Almost too still.
His suit cuts sharp lines across his broad frame, his hands clasped in front of him, his face carved into something cold and unreadable.
But his eyes —
When they meet mine, something flickers. Just a crack, a glint, like a storm bottled up and waiting. It’s enough to make my breath hitch. I fight to keep my face calm and poised — but inside, all of my hormones rage. But my heart holds steady, and my steps grow steadier and more sure.
The room blurs — the flowers, the whispers, the guests rising from their seats — none of it matters. It’s just the space between us, charged and crackling, like the air before lightning.
I remember the way his mouth had pressed to mine the night we kissed, the way his fingers had tightened slightly, the way his breath had faltered for just a second.
He’s not as untouchable as he pretends to be. There’s something alive under that cold exterior, something raw and fierce.
And I want it.
At the end of the aisle, my father gives my arm a quiet squeeze, his eyes shimmering with unspoken words. Then he lets go, stepping aside.
I stand there alone, facing Zasha, feeling the weight of every promise and every unspoken hope I carry inside me. As I take the final steps toward him, I make a silent vow.
I will turn this into more than just a contract. This is going to be more than a mere transaction. I will make him see me, and I will make him want to stay.
Not for a year. But for good.
Zasha turns, offering me his arm — the movement smooth, controlled. When our hands touch, a spark jumps between us, fast and electric. I glance up. His dark eyes flicker just slightly, but his face remains unreadable, his jaw set in that stoic, carved mask.
The officiant begins, his words blur past, familiar and formal. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart, the rush of thoughts pressing against my ribs.
On the surface, I look steady, but inside, I’m lit up, every nerve stretched tight, every part of me tuned to the man beside me.
The officiant’s voice dips as he speaks Zasha’s name.