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I had.

The ring that fit perfectly two weeks ago now hung loose on my finger, sliding around no matter how I positioned my hand.

No matter how Pavel coaxed or demanded, food turned to ash in my mouth.

My stomach stayed knotted with anxiety, rejectingeverything but the smallest sips of water and occasional bites of plain bread.

"It's stunning," I whispered, staring at my reflection in the three-way mirror.

And it was—layers upon layers of silk and French lace that whispered sophistication rather than screaming wealth. The bodice hugged my torso perfectly, the sweetheart neckline both modest and alluring.

Tiny seed pearls and crystals had been hand-sewn into intricate patterns that caught the light with every breath I took. The skirt flowed like water, creating an ethereal silhouette that made me look like something from a fairy tale.

Everything I would have chosen…if I'd had a choice.

But that was the problem, wasn't it?

None of this was my choice.

I was standing in a penthouse with a breathtaking view of the river and the city's monuments—while trying on a custom haute couture wedding gown for a wedding I never agreed to.

The penthouse had been transformed into a bridal salon for the afternoon.

Dress forms displayed various undergarment options, jewelry boxes overflowed with sparkling accessories, and champagne glasses sat mostly untouched on silver trays.

It was surreal, like playing dress-up for the most important day of my life while feeling completely disconnected from the reality of it.

"Of course it's stunning. I don't do mediocre." Yelena stepped back to admire her work, her narrowed eyes critical as they swept over every detail. "Though Pavel givingme only two weeks to create a masterpiece was completely unreasonable. Do you know how many hours of hand-beading this required?"

She gestured to the intricate patterns covering the bodice and trailing down the skirt like constellation maps. I could only imagine the painstaking work that had gone into each tiny detail.

Around us, the other wives murmured approval—Marina with her warm smile and gentle hands as she adjusted the delicate cap sleeves, Samara holding up different jewelry options against my skin, Viktoria quietly observing with understanding in her eyes, and Nadia offering encouraging nods.

All married to men just as dangerous as Pavel, yet they glowed with happiness that seemed impossible given their circumstances.

From what I could tell, none of the others had a family member at the mercy of these monsters, so why were these women with killers?

How could they love such treacherous men so completely?

"The veil is next," Marina said, lifting a cascade of silk tulle adorned with the same intricate beadwork as the dress. "Yelena recreated Pavel's grandmother's veil from some old family photos and added beading to match your dress."

Family heirlooms, custom gowns, elaborate ceremonies—why was Pavel insisting on all these traditional elements?

He didn't love me.

We weren't dating.

This was to ensure my silence about the brutal murder I saw him commit.

Nothing more.

He wasn’t my lover.

I was an enemy he was keeping close. Under control.

The contradiction of it all gnawed at me.

Why make this big show about a lie?