Page 5

I blink at the sight before me. An opulent gothic church rises into the steel gray sky, its spires piercing the clouds. Stained glass windows line the exterior, filtering the dreary light into rainbow hues.

I stand there, looking up. Once we enter, there’s no turning back.

“You ready?” Dima asks from where he stands beside me. I look up at him and the first thing I observe is how the scar across his cheek seems to be silver under the moonlight.

“Can anyone ever be ready for a thing like this?” I ask.

“A thing like this…” he repeats what I say and clucks his tongue. “It’s best we get used to calling it a marriage now.”

“Not a marriage,” I say, a tad bit too sharp. “A wedding for strategic purposes, I can live with. A marriage is far more intimate.”

“Well, the world’s going to have to believe it’s a marriage,” Dima chuckles at my defiance. “Perception is everything.”

I swallow hard. This man, powerful and dangerous in equal measure, is soon going to be my husband in the eyes of the law.

He holds out a hand in invitation, his eyes gleaming with triumph. I stare at his outstretched palm, my mind racing. I agreed to a wedding, and he called it a marriage.

“Lara?” His voice washes over me. I look up to see his furrowed brow accentuating the deep set lines on his forehead. Oh, dear lord. What the hell am I thinking? He’s over a decade older than me, and I’m out here, ready to walk down the aisle without telling a single soul.

“My brothers will kill me,” I whisper.

“We’ll deal with it,” he says without skipping a beat, his gray eyes burning through me. He sounds so sure of himself that there seems to be no room for me to worry about such things.

I inhale, my breath trembling in my throat, and he leans forward, touching my cheek. I jerk momentarily, caught off guard, but don’t move away. Now is probably not the time or place, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Reaffirming, almost. It calms me.

The fleeting moment of tenderness dissipates as he moves back, and I suddenly feel aware of the disappointment at that action. What the hell is happening to me?

I take a step back and look at my feet, not wanting him to get any ideas. God forbid he ends up thinking I’m actually into him or something. Because there’s no way that’s true. I mean, it can’t be.

And yet…I can’t deny the pull I felt when he came to my rescue. How strong and brave he looked, how fiercely protective and loyal to a woman he owes nothing.

I wonder what it is he sees in me that’s enough to make him throw caution to the wind and marry me for my sake. Something tells me there has to be more to this than just wanting to protect the family.

“Shall we?” he says, observing how silent I’ve been. I pray he doesn’t notice I’ve been tense too. He gives me his arm.

I clear my throat, grasping for something to say to break the tension. Dima's gaze sharpens as he turns to me, brows drawing together. "What is it?"

A sudden wave of anxiety washes over me as I realize I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion. "Dima, I don't have a wedding dress,” I gesture to my jeans and blouse.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I watch as his lips purse into a thin line, and he closes his eyes. Suddenly, I realize he’s trying to hold back laughter.

“What the hell?” I whack him on his arm without thinking twice. With four brothers, it’s now my intuitive response to a man laughing at me.

“Ow!” he pretends to be hurt and then doubles over in laughter.

“Seriously, Dima?” I feel the tension ease away from my shoulders. This little laugh we share is already making me feel at ease.

“While we’re at it,” he manages to snort out through the laughter. “It looks like the bridesmaids and groomsmen are missing too. Heck!” he stands now, a horrified look on his face, touching his pockets around at a maddening pace. “Lara! I think I lost the ring!”

Suddenly, the absurdity of my concern becomes glaringly obvious. Until hours ago, Dima and I only ever shared a few sentences, and now? We’re getting married. And I’m standing here worrying about a dress? His laughter brings me ease and flows over me like a gentle stream.

We’re doing this. No matter what. I might as well get on board now.

I stare at him wide-eyed, my hand flying to cover my mouth as I gasp in mock horror. “You lost the ring? Dima, you can’t be serious!” I play along, trying to keep my voice steady despite the butterflies in my stomach.

His eyes twinkle with mischief as he chuckles, and then his laughter fades. He looks down at me with a warm expression that catches me off guard. “I’m sure we can manage without a dress, don’t you think? Besides, you’d be the most stunning bride, regardless of what you’re wearing.”

His words hang in the air, and I find myself blushing at the unexpected compliment. My heart soars and I feel foolish for it. Why the hell does it affect me so to know that Dima Orlov thinks I’m stunning?

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He clears his throat uncomfortably as though he’s trying to find words. His mouth opens, then closes. Instead, he gives me his hand and a small nod.

I nod back, taking it. His hand, calloused and big around mine, feels like I’ve been touched by a force tethering me close.

I try not to tremble when we walk into the church, hand in hand.

***

My gaze wanders over the vaulted ceilings, the plush red carpet, the gilded accents along the walls. The church smells of beautiful, rich incense. There are a thousand lit candles drizzled across the room.

How did Dima convince the church to open for us at this hour?

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Dima's voice comes from behind me, his deep timbre sending shivers down my spine.

"Very," I admit, unable to tear my gaze away from the panorama before us.

"Come, there are some people I'd like you to meet." He gently places a hand on the small of my back, something he hasn’t done before, and I realize I like it when he leads. He guides me toward the entrance of the chapel.

Inside, the grandeur continues, with soaring ceilings, intricately carved wooden pews, and stained glass windows casting colorful shadows on the walls.

Once again, I find myself wondering how Dima managed to arrange all of this so quickly.

"Father Aleksei," Dima says, gesturing to an older man in traditional priest garb. "And this is Mr. Thompson, a government official." My surprise must show on my face, because Dima smirks and adds, "I told you I work fast."

"Nice to meet you both," I say politely, still trying to process the presence of these two men.

There’s no backing out now. The government’s been involved.

"So, we're getting married right now?" I ask, trying to hide the slight tremble in my voice.

"Indeed," Dima confirms, his eyes locking with mine. "I hope you're ready."

I nod. What other choice do we have?

***

We stand before the priest, and I realize the weight of this moment. Since childhood, I believed one is meant to marry for life, and yet here I am, taking the biggest risk to save my hide.

I look up at Dima, wondering if he’s this scared. But he looks right ahead as Father Aleksei begins the ceremony. There isn’t a flicker of doubt on his face, not a sliver of regret.

I find myself wondering what it takes to make a man this principled, courageous, and bold. In this moment, I realize one truth about my soon-to-be husband: Dima Orlov is a man of his word. Once he says he’ll do something, he’ll make it happen.

Even something as insane as marrying a girl he hardly knows.

Father Aleksei’s words fill the sacred space with reverence, and I shift my focus to him. As the priest leads us through the vows, I steal a sideways glance at Dima, whose gaze is fixed on me, a silent promise in his gaze.

A strange feeling, overwhelming and all-consuming, overtakes me. I always dreamt that someday, I’d want my husband to look at me like Dima’s looking at me now.

And this observation is disorienting. It can’t be . Dima would never be interested in a girl like me, and maybe I’m in such deep denial over this huge step we’ve gone ahead and taken that I’m starting to see things I want to believe instead of what might be reality.

Suddenly, I feel dizzy, and the blood rushes to my head. I almost swoon. His hand tightens around mine, grounding me in this whirlwind of a moment. My vision clears, and the first thing I see is Dima’s gray eyes etched with concern. He squeezes my hand and raises an eyebrow in inquiry.

“I’m fine,” I mouth, turning my attention back to the priest. I struggle to keep my composure, to focus on the gravity of the commitment I'm making with this man beside me. Dima's eyes never waver from mine.

When it comes time to exchange rings, Father Aleksei shoots Dima a knowing look as if he can sense the lies behind our vows. Dima offers a sheepish smile in return before the government witness brings out a simple gold band.

My heart skips a beat. Despite all of this being such a gunshot thing , Dima somehow managed to arrange a band. The thoughtfulness isn’t lost on me.

With a gentle hand, he puts the ring through my finger. Wherever his fingers graze, a fire remains. I try so hard to keep my fingers steady, but they tremble like a leaf on a thin branch.

“It’s a perfect fit,” Dima whispers incredulously, his lips breaking out into a smile, and a jolt of awareness courses through me. The metal feels cold against my skin, heavy, like the burden of this sham of a marriage we’ve entered into.

Father Aleksei’s voice brings me back to the present moment, and I realize he’s asking me to repeat after him. My thoughts in disarray, I stumble over the words, my voice coming out in a shaky whisper.

Dima, on the other hand, sounds certain and sure. Unwavering with each word.

“And now,” Father Aleksei says. “You may kiss the bride.”

Dima's gaze meets mine, a silent question lingering in his eyes. I part my lips, my heart thundering in my heart. I never thought the priest would ask this of us, and the nervousness that roars through me almost drowns out the voice of desire at the back of my head. Almost.

A faint whisper beckons through my mind. Kiss me already.

I can feel the tension crackling between us in the charged air of the church. My heart races so hard as I notice lines on his face I hadn’t before. He’s so close now that I smell the delicious mahogany and citrus on him. As he leans in, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to mine, I can't help but hold my breath in anticipation. His hand cradles my cheek gently, his touch surprisingly soft for a man with such rough edges. I close my eyes.

And then, his lips graze the bottom of my cheek ever so gently, and far too soon, he pulls away.

My eyes flutter open, disappointment crushing me. I see his face, a small smirk on the corner of his lip. I worry he is reading my mind and take a hesitant step back.

“Well, Mrs. Orlov. Here’s to a night we can’t take back,” he gives me a roguish wink.

***

I sit in the car, staring out of the window. Dima is dropping me back home, and I haven’t found the right words to say to him.

We’re married, yet in this moment, the fact that we’re strangers is glaringly obvious.

We continue the drive in silence, and I can't help but think about my brothers. They have no idea I'm here, married to a man I barely know. The guilt weighs heavily on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

"Are you alright?" Dima asks, noticing my distress.

"I'm just…" I hesitate, unsure how much I want to share with him. "I'm worried about my brothers. They don't know anything about this."

"They will soon enough," he assures me, his gaze steady and sincere. "We can’t tell them straight away, can we?”

“No,” I sigh in acknowledgment. “We can’t. They’ll get suspicious. But I just hate lying to them.”

“The lying is temporary until we have to make them believe we fell in love. For that, we have to pretend we are in love,” he says.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask, trying to convince myself that this is going to be an easy journey to go on.

"It's better if our siblings hear about the marriage from us than from someone else. They might not understand at first, but they'll come around eventually if we can convince them we were so madly in love that we had to get married before anyone could talk us out of it."

His words make sense, but the thought of facing my brothers with this news still fills me with dread. What if they never forgive me for entering into this arrangement?

"I know you're right," I admit, my voice barely audible. "It's just…I don't want them to be hurt or disappointed in me."

"Then we need to present it in a way that they can understand," Dima suggests. "We need to get to know each other so wretchedly well that when they question us, our love is glaringly obvious. We should know things about one another few people do. We need to work in tandem, develop…chemistry.”

Chemistry. I blush and look away, wondering how Dima hasn’t noticed the effect he has on me so far.

"Fine," I concede, taking a deep breath. "We can start by spending more time together, getting to know each other better."

"Sounds good," Dima agrees, offering me a small smile. "Let's start with lunch tomorrow, just the two of us. We can sneak away somewhere private so no one will see us."

"Alright," I nod, grateful for the suggestion. “Pick me up outside my apartment? My brothers will be out.”

“Perfect,” he says, reaching over and brushing his hand supportively over my knuckles. I close my hand in a fist, suddenly shy.

***

The next day, Dima and I slip away to a secluded corner of the city, where we share a quiet meal. As we eat, I find myself relaxing in his presence, surprised by how easy it is to talk to him. He tells me about Nikolai and how he asked for Anoushka’s hand.

“So, you’re saying he proposed it as an alliance but was secretly in love with her?” I gasp at the scandal. “I wonder if Boris knows.”

“He doesn’t,” Dima laughs, shaking his head. “Or if he does, he pretends not to. Boris is far too proper for that.”

“So he is,” I mutter.

Desert arrives, and he insists I try his too.

“Mmm,” I close my lips, savoring the fresh cream and strawberries.

“You’ve got a little something right there,” he murmurs, leaning across the table to gently wipe a spot of cream from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. His touch lingers for a moment longer than necessary, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Thank you," I manage to say, flustered by the magic of his touch.

***

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the city as Dima and I stand side by side on the rooftop terrace. The Philadelphia skyline sprawls out before us, a beautiful backdrop for a private dinner out in town.

It had snowed the previous night, and the entire city looks charming in white.

“So, where did you say you were going tonight?” I ask Dima.

"Out on a date,” he shrugs.

For some reason, even the thought of him being on a date with someone else feels intrusive, like it doesn’t belong in my mind. “Are you…seeing someone, though?” I ask, suddenly nervous. He married me to keep us safe, but I never even asked if he was in a relationship. How the hell is he going to explain this to her?

He turns and leans against the railing, looking directly at me. I avert my gaze, suddenly feeling shy.

“I’m not,” he drawls, looking amused.

“Oh,” I clear my throat as relief washes over me.

“And you?”

I snort. “Like my brothers would ever let me!”

“True,” he chuckles.

A comfortable silence washes over us, a million questions playing on my mind. And yet, each one seems too preposterous to ask.

But then, Dima does something so Dima. I’ve come to understand him as an observant person, and once again, he proves me right.

“You know,” he begins. “We’re meant to get to know one another. Whatever questions you have, they’re better let out than in.”

I sigh with relief and turn back to face him. “Have you…” I ask reluctantly. “How many serious relationships have you had?”

“One,” he says without skipping a beat. “A girl called Missy in sixth grade. I thought I was in love, but she left me for a guy called Charlie. Since then, none. There have been women here and there, but none serious. Nikolai was all alone, and he needed all the support he could get.”

I listen intently, feeling a sense of relief, knowing that Dima didn’t have to sacrifice a lot in wanting to protect me. Soon enough, he’s the one asking me questions and I answer in all honesty. I find myself wanting to share a part of myself with him, to bridge the gap between us even further.

***

"Have you ever tried ice skating?" he asks out of the blue one afternoon, his voice laced with amusement.

"Uh, no," I admit, chuckling at the random question. "I'm pretty clumsy, so I've always avoided it."

"Clumsy, huh?" He grins, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I think it's time to conquer your fears. There's a rink nearby. What do you say?"

"Are you serious?" I laugh, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach. "You're not afraid I'll break something?"

"Even if you do, I'll be there to catch you," he says, his tone teasing but sincere.

"Fine," I concede, rolling my eyes playfully. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Deal," he replies with a smile before guiding me toward the elevator.

As we make our way to the ice rink, I find myself stealing glances at him, noticing the way his eyes light up when he talks about his favorite hockey team or the gentle curve of his smile when he laughs at my jokes. I can’t help but notice that when he laughs, I can forget about how intimidating he looks. His scars, tattoos, and strength all fade away in comparison to that boyish charm.

Dima helps me lace up my skates, his fingers brushing mine as we work together. A warm shiver runs down my spine, and I can't help but feel grateful for his patience and understanding. I went into this arrangement feeling trapped, but now I realize that he genuinely cares for my well-being.

"Ready?" he asks once we're both on the ice, extending a hand to steady me.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I reply, gripping his hand tightly. We glide across the ice, Dima's strong arm supporting me as I wobble and stumble. Every time I lose my balance, he's there to catch me without a second thought.

***

“Thank you for tonight,” I tell him as he drops me back home. Over the past month, we’ve built up a strong rapport, and I’ve truly started enjoying our time together.

“Anytime,” he nods gruffly. I’m about to leave the car, but he holds my hand, yanking me back. I freeze, turning to see what he wants. The way he’s looking at me right now, with an emotion I can’t quite decipher, makes my heart race. His gaze lingers on my lips, and for a fleeting moment, I think he might kiss me, but then he sits back in his seat and runs a finger through that short blonde hair. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?” I ask in a breathy whisper, a little too fast.

“We should tell our families tomorrow.”

Okay. This is not what I was expecting.

“So soon?” I ask, petrified of how they’d react.

“We’re getting reckless. It’s only a matter of time before someone in Philadelphia recognizes us and the news spreads. We should be the ones to tell them before someone else does,” he says firmly.

Dima is right, as much as I hate to admit it. We can't hide forever, and the longer we wait, the harder it will be to face the consequences. Taking a deep breath, I nod slowly, my eyes meeting his intense gaze.

"You're right," I agree, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "We'll tell them tomorrow."

Dima's expression softens as he reaches out to gently cup my cheek, his touch surprisingly tender. "We'll face it together," he reassures me, his thumb brushing against my skin.

His words offer me comfort in the midst of uncertainty, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to lean into his touch, seeking solace in his presence. We sit in silence for a few more seconds before he says something that brings me crashing back to reality.

“You remember how we must act?” he asks.

I gulp. How can I forget the number of times he’s told me we’d have to act intimate in public?

“Y…yeah,” I stammer. “I remember.”

“Good,” he says, leaning past me to open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow…wife.”

***

That night, I toss and turn, tremendously afraid. How the hell does Dima expect us to act like a real couple in front of everyone when we haven’t even kissed? He’s not exactly the easiest person to cozy up to.

He’s nice and warm. I do enjoy his company. It’s pleasant, even.

And at times, for the sake of honesty, I have no shame in admitting to myself that he can send my heart racing.

But to be intimate in public? I’m five foot three, and he? Like six feet or something. He looks like the kind of man that could snap someone in half without breaking a sweat. I know we have to keep up appearances, but how the hell can I look past that tough exterior?

I try to sleep, yet I still can't shake the fear of what others might think when they see us together. Will they see right through this sham?

Or will they buy it?

I only hope we’re not forced to end up regretting what’s been done.