Page 134

One week later…

Nikolai

I stood at the altar with my heart in my throat.

The ceremony was everything I swore it would be—lavish, unapologetic, and everything my baby girl ever wanted. The ballroom was dressed in black and ivory, high ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers and candlelight that flickered across polished floors like this was a holy place. Fresh flowers lay on every surface: white orchids, pale peonies, and roses so deep red they looked like velvet wine. Gold accents glittered under the light, subtle and strategic, power hiding behind elegance.

I hadn’t spared a single expense. I hadn’t overlooked a single detail. I didn’t care how much it cost because this wasn’t just a wedding.

It was a statement.

The Morozovs sat to one side. The Kingsleys were across the aisle. The press had been blocked from entering, but I’d made sure they were fed just enough from the outside to understand what today meant.

They would hear the music.

They would see the photos.

They would know that the Kingsleys and the Morozovs were tied together as one.

That Sloane Kinglsey was to be mywife.

I intended to look calm. Cool. A man who never wavered. But my jaw was locked so tight it ached, because the moment was coming. The doors were still closed. She wasn’t here yet.

And for the first time in years, I was fucking nervous.

I didn’t doubt her; I just knew the second I saw her appear in that doorway, I’d never be the same.

The music shifted.

Everyone turned.

The doors opened.

And I forgot how to breathe.

She stepped into the room as though she was walking into a throne room, her throne room. Her posture was perfect. Her chin held high. But her eyes—those beautiful green eyes—captured mine with a gentleness I didn’t deserve and a strength I’d never stop protecting.

Her dress wasn’t the one she’d worn a week ago.

It was new.

Custom.

Ivory silk, pure and smooth, with a neckline that dipped just enough to draw the eye, and sleeves that hugged her arms before flaring at the wrists like something out of a dream. The bodice molded to her, every line accentuating the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. The skirt fell in layered silk, weightless but regal, trailing behind her like a waterfall of fabric.

Her hair was swept up, soft tendrils framing her face, and her makeup was light—flushed lips, long lashes, eyes lined with black. She wore no veil. No need to hide. Just a pair of sparkling diamond earrings that caught the light with every step.

She was positivelyradiant.

The kind of beauty that made gods kneel and men start wars.

My hands flexed at my sides. She walked toward me, her steps slow as her gaze remained locked with mine and a possessive growl rumbled in my throat.

My bride.

My fuckingqueen.

Every inch of her was mine. Each second she got closer, it became harder to hold my emotion back. I felt it swell in my chest, tight and unbearable. She reached the front of the aisle, and I stepped forward, offering my hand. She placed hers in mine without hesitation. Her fingers were warm and her eyes didn’t waver.