Page 9

The room is too quiet. Too elegant. Too perfect. Every inch designed to remind me of what I’ve lost and what I’m being forced to become.

My gaze locks on the dress laid out across the edge of the bed—ivory silk, delicate lace, shimmering in the low light like a threat wrapped in beauty. A bridal gown. A noose disguised as grace.

I can’t breathe.

My pulse hammers beneath my skin, panic rising like a tide I can’t hold back. I pace the length of the room with quick, shallow breaths, arms wrapped around myself as though that might keep me from splintering apart.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

I’m being forced into marriage.

The words feel foreign in my mouth, even when I whisper them aloud just to make them lose power.

“Marriage,” I murmur, the syllables tasting like ash. “To him.”

I stop in front of the tall mirror by the armoire, staring at my reflection, as if I might find a version of myself there that still makes sense.

But I don’t see me—not the girl who once wore red lipstick and danced barefoot at garden parties, not the one who argued politics at dinner tables and rolled her eyes at her father’s stern glances.

All I see now is someone worn thin. Someone cornered.

Trapped.

The gown is a final insult. Its softness taunts me.

The fine embroidery along the bodice—threaded silver vines twisting along the neckline—is delicate, romantic.

As if this were a fairy tale. As if the man waiting on the other side of this nightmare was a prince and not a monster with green-flecked eyes and a voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Why me? Why this?

I turn away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of that thing any longer.

I dig my nails into my palms, try to slow my breathing, but the walls feel like they’re inching closer with every passing second.

The windows are sealed, the door locked.

My choices stripped away one by one, all dressed in silk and satin to hide the blood beneath.

The handle clicks.

I spin toward the door just as it opens and three maids step inside, each one quiet, composed, careful. They carry a tray of jewelry, soft slippers, a veil draped over one arm like it’s holy.

Something inside me snaps. “No.” The word leaves me in a snarl. “No, get that thing out of here.”

They freeze.

The youngest glances at the dress, then back at me, her mouth opening like she might try to soothe me. I don’t let her.

“You think this is normal?” I shout. “You think this is okay?”

One reaches for the tray of rings and combs, and I slap it away with a furious cry, sending it clattering to the floor in a spray of gold and pearls. The noise is sharp, glorious. It feeds something in me.

I hurl the slippers next, across the room. Then I rip the veil from the older maid’s arms and toss it aside. I shove the edge of the table hard enough that it groans against the floor and topples the water pitcher. Liquid splashes across the rug like shattered glass.

“Do you hear me?” I scream. “I’m not putting it on! I’m not marrying him! He’s a monster!”

The maids scatter like frightened birds, rushing for the door.

All except one. Her voice slices through the noise like a blade—low, firm, undeniable.

“Enough.”

I freeze.

The senior housekeeper steps forward, calm and unimpressed, brushing past the others with a quiet authority that silences the room even before she speaks again.

“Leave us,” she says over her shoulder, and the younger maids obey without question, slipping through the door like shadows.

Now it’s just the two of us.

I stand amid the mess I’ve made, chest heaving, breath caught between fury and despair. My hands tremble at my sides, but I hold her gaze.

She’s older than the others. Tall, with steel in her posture and lines etched into the corners of her mouth from years of holding her tongue. But her eyes are clear. Sharp.

She steps toward the dress, smooths the fabric with one palm, then looks back at me.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” she says. “Throwing tantrums won’t change where you are.”

My mouth opens, closes. “So I’m just supposed to accept it?”

“Yes.”

That stops me.

She walks around the bed slowly, not flinching from the ruined tray or the broken rhythm of my breath. “He’s not what you think, but he’s not kind either. The rules here are different. They don’t bend.”

“I’m not going to be anyone’s bride,” I whisper.

Her eyes meet mine again, and for a moment, there’s something softer there. Not pity. Not sympathy. Something closer to understanding.

“You should be grateful,” the housekeeper says.

Her voice is calm, but it cuts through the silence like broken glass, every word sharp-edged and deliberate.

I stiffen. Grateful—for this?

My hands clench at my sides, trembling with rage.

I feel it in every part of me now, burning in my chest, clawing its way up my throat until it threatens to choke me.

The dress. The locked doors. The forced vows.

The man who watches me like he owns me, like he’s already decided how I’ll live and die.

Grateful.

“What did you just say?” I whisper, not trusting my voice to rise higher.

The housekeeper’s gaze doesn’t waver. She stands with the poise of someone who’s lived through storms, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her back straight, her chin lifted as if daring me to argue.

“You heard me.”

I take a step forward, fury scraping across my ribs. “You think I should thank him for tearing me from my home? For dragging me into this twisted game—”

“For sparing your life,” she interrupts, her tone still maddeningly level. “He could’ve killed you. He had every right to, not that I agree with it.”

“Right?” I breathe. “What right does he have to anything?”

Silence follows. Thick. Oppressive.

Then she speaks again, her voice heavier this time—measured. Careful. “Your father killed his younger brother.”

The room tilts.

I stare at her. The words land like a blow I never saw coming.

“What?” I ask, even though I heard her. Every syllable. Each one hammering into me like a nail through bone.

She meets my gaze evenly, unflinching. “Maxim Sharov. His brother. Barely twenty-seven when it happened. Quiet. Loyal. More heart than sense. Your father ordered his execution like it was just another transaction.”

“No,” I say. My voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from the wrong body. “No, that’s not—he wouldn’t….”

“He did,” she says. “Maxim knew something. Something Carter didn’t want anyone else to know.”

I shake my head, but the motion doesn’t help. It only makes the nausea worse.

“You’re lying.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “I wish I were.”

I want to scream at her, throw the words back in her face, but something about her stillness, the way she says it like it’s fact—like it’s old fact, one she’s carried for too long—slams the fight right out of me.

My legs give out before I know I’m falling. I sink to the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the blankets like they might anchor me to something real.

“He was just a boy,” she says, voice gentler now, but it doesn’t soothe. It makes it worse. “Andrei never found him. He simply vanished.”

I press my hands to my ears. “Stop.”

“You don’t have to believe me now,” she says. “You will. He’ll show you. Piece by piece. It’s why you’re here.”

The room swims around me. My lungs tighten. My skin feels too thin, stretched over something that’s trying to break free.

My father—

No. No. Not him. He’s harsh. Cold. Distant. But not a killer. Not that.

The woman moves around the room, righting what I’d thrown earlier, her movements calm, methodical.

“This wedding,” she says, “is not just revenge. It’s reparation. For everything Carter took. For what he destroyed. You’re not being punished, Alina. You’re the debt being collected.”

I can’t breathe. My pulse pounds behind my eyes, behind my ribs, in my throat. I want to scream. I want to wake up.

“You should rest,” she says, as if this conversation didn’t just rip my world in half. “There’s still time to decide what kind of bride you want to be.”

She leaves me alone in the silence, the door closing with a soft click that feels louder than a gunshot.

I sit there, staring at the dress, heart breaking open and bleeding onto the floor.

I don’t move in what feels like hours. I sit near the window, the hem of the gown pooling around my bare feet like ivory fog, the bodice too tight across my ribs, my skin itching beneath the lace.

I haven’t eaten. I haven’t spoken. The house is quiet, still, like it’s waiting to see if I’ll shatter before the vows or after.

I told myself I wouldn’t put it on. That I’d burn it first. That I’d fight until they dragged me down the aisle in chains if they had to.

In the end, I did put it on—because I needed to see what he expected of me. What kind of fantasy he was building in his head. The version of me that would stand beside him with a smile carved into her face.

The dress fits perfectly.

A soft knock breaks the silence. Not firm. Not threatening. Just enough to remind me I’m not alone, even if I haven’t seen anyone since the housekeeper left.

Then the door opens, and Dima steps inside with a tray in his hands.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he says, not unkindly, though there’s something wry in his tone. “You’ll need your strength.”

I blink at him, slow and tired. “Where’s Andrei?”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Expecting someone else?”

“He usually brings the food himself,” I say, ignoring the heat rising to my cheeks. “Doesn’t trust anyone else to watch me eat.”

Dima smirks, setting the tray on the small table by the fireplace. “He’s getting ready for the big day. Busy man, our Andrei. Tying his tie, polishing his shoes, deciding whether to put the bride in pearls or chains.”

I don’t laugh.

He glances over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the gown. “You wear it well.”

My stomach twists. “Don’t.”

“What? It’s a compliment.” He pulls a chair out and sits, elbows resting on his knees. “You look like every part of you wants to tear it off, but you wear it like armor. That’s something.”

I look away. The food smells good—roasted vegetables, warm bread, grilled meat—but it might as well be glass.

“Why are you really here?” I ask.

“Andrei sent me. He didn’t want you to miss dinner.”

“He didn’t want to see me?”

Dima shrugs. “He’ll see you soon enough.”

I stare at the plate, the gleam of silver against porcelain, the flicker of candlelight across polished surfaces. Everything here is too pretty. Too careful.

I’m being dressed for slaughter, and everyone keeps smiling like it’s a celebration.

Dima leans back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. For a man trained to kill, he moves with the ease of someone entirely unbothered by violence. Like it’s routine. Like this is just another evening.

He watches me a moment longer, then says, “You know, most people in your position would be begging by now. Crying. Bargaining. Not sitting like some marble statue in a dress they swore they’d never wear.”

“Maybe I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says, with something that might actually be respect. “You’re not.”

The compliment tastes bitter. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this—not the gown, not the food, not the forced civility of a man who would stand beside Andrei and call it duty.

“Why does he want this?” I ask quietly. “Why marry me when he could have just… ended it?”

Dima’s eyes sharpen. “Marriage is messier. Slower. More permanent. A bullet burns for a second. A wedding? That carves a name into stone.”

My throat tightens. “So I’m just a message. A warning to my father.”

He nods. “In part, but I think it’s more than that now.”

“Why?”

Dima pauses. Then leans forward, folding his hands together. “He didn’t just want you to wear the dress. He wanted you to choose it. To feel it. He wanted to see what you’d do with it.”

My voice comes out tight. “What does he think I’ll do?”

Dima gives me a slow, strange smile. “He thinks you’ll surprise him.”

I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

He stands, brushing a crumb from his coat. “Eat. Or don’t. I’d recommend eating, though. Big day tomorrow.”

With that, he leaves me in the dim light, the dress heavy around my legs, the scent of warm bread clinging to the air.

I don’t touch the food.