Page 3

My heart pounds like a war drum as I stand in the glittering reception hall, a sea of unfamiliar faces swirling around me. Champagne flutes clink, laughter bubbles, and sometimes I laugh on cue when expected of me, but it doesn’t sound like mine.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Zolotov!" His cousin Damien’s wife, Genevieve, comes warmly to kiss me on my cheek. I force a smile, but inside I'm screaming. Mrs. Zolotov. The name sits heavy on my shoulders, a mantle I never asked for.

Just last week, I was Natalia Orlov, an ordinary girl with ordinary dreams. Now? I'm married off into one of the most dangerous families in New York.

I fidget with my wedding ring, the diamond catching the light. It's beautiful, but it means nothing. For the hundredth time this day, I feel like I’ve been scammed into this marriage. One day, I was enjoying my single life, living on my own. How did I end up here?

Across the room, I see my brothers clink glasses, and the sight grates on my nerves. They used my love for them and strong-armed me into this marriage. That’s what happened. And I’m so unaccustomed to saying no to them that this wedding simply happened to me—and all so very fast.

"You look radiant, my dear," an elderly gentleman says, patting my hand. "Denis is a lucky man."

Lucky? Ha! I want to laugh, but I'm afraid if I start, I'll never stop. Little does anyone know that I might have gone through with the vows, but this marriage is going to play out on my terms, whether Denis likes it or not!

Yet, at the back of my mind, I’m aware I already failed on that front. I was supposed to keep my distance, so why the hell did I let him hold my hand during the ceremony? Heat crawls down my neck at the memory of it. How he asked if I was alright, and didn’t believe me when I said I was.

Damn my trembling hands. He saw right through my nerves, and the way he reached out to comfort me without a second thought took me by surprise. I should have pulled away, but I weakened under his charm.

I think I’m screwed.

Suddenly, the crowd parts, and there he is. Denis Zolotov, my husband of exactly two hours. He moves with the grace of a man who knows he owns the room, all lean muscle and coiled power beneath his impeccable suit. My breath catches, and I hate myself for it.

He's talking to a group of men, his low voice carrying hints of amusement. Even from here, I can see the others hanging on his every word, desperate for his approval. It's like watching a king hold court or something.

As if sensing my gaze, Denisi turns. Our eyes lock, and a jolt of electricity races down my spine. He smiles, slow and soft, and starts making his way toward me.

Oh god. My palms are sweating. I resist the urge to wipe them on my pristine white gown. God forbid he notices and sees right through me.

"Having fun?" he murmurs when he reaches me, one large hand settling on the small of my back.

I try to ignore how warm his touch is, how it seems to sear through the delicate lace of my dress. I tell myself I’m not moving away from his touch because people are watching.

"Oh yes," I chirp, channeling every ounce of fake cheer I can muster. "Nothing says 'fun' quite like being paraded around like a prize cow."

Denis chuckles, the sound rich and dark. "Such spirit," he says, his thumb tracing small circles on my back. "I think I’ll come to enjoy that about you."

“Don’t count on it,” I roll my eyes, and this time, I move away. The tracing circles on my back, however nice, are a recipe for disaster. I might forget all the plans I made, after all.

A distinguished-looking couple approaches, and just like that, Denis transforms. His smile becomes open, charming, as he greets them warmly.

"Ah, Ambassador, how good of you to come," he says, shaking the man's hand. "And Mrs. Petrov, you look lovely as always."

I watch, half-fascinated, as Denis effortlessly makes them feel like the most important guests in the room. I’ve seen him do it a dozen times already this evening. It’s thoughtful, in a way, to make everyone feel special on his big day. This whole gracious host act is making it hard for me to play it cool.

As a matter of fact, it frays on my nerves. My heart races, and I begin to fear I might forget what it is I want. Once again, I could find someone else running things for me, and that’s a mistake I can’t allow again.

And so, I tune out of the conversation, trying to prevent myself from accidentally discovering one more thing I might like about him.

But then Denis turns to me and my eyes focus on his steel-gray ones locking onto mine. "Shall we?" he asks, extending his hand. The simple gesture takes me by surprise and I feel like my brain is cotton.

“Sh…shall we what?” I inquire.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t state the obvious. His eyes shift toward the dance floor and I follow his gaze.

My heart skips, then races. The first dance. Of course. I should have expected this, but somehow, I'm caught off guard. My mind whirls with conflicting emotions—anger at being forced into this situation, fear of what's to come, and an unexpected flicker of… anticipation?

I hesitate, my fingers twitching at my sides. Part of me wants to refuse, to make a scene right here in front of all these important guests. It would serve him right to act so damn charming and happy when this occasion is anything but. Yet the more practical side of me knows that would only make things worse.

"Come now, Natalia," Denis murmurs encouragingly, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "It's just a dance."

Just a dance. Right. And this is just an arranged marriage to a man I barely know.

Taking a deep breath, I place my hand in his. "Let's get this over with," I mutter, forcing a smile for the benefit of our audience.

Denis leads me onto the dance floor, and the crowd parts before us like the Red Sea. As we take our positions, the opening strains of a waltz fill the air. The chandeliers dim, creating pools of soft, golden light that make everything feel dreamlike, surreal, and romantic—a recipe for disaster.

"Breathe, Natalia," Denis whispers as he pulls me close. His hand is warm on my waist, and I'm acutely aware of how small I feel next to him. "You look like you're about to faint."

I lift my chin defiantly. "I'm fine," I insist, even as the room seems to spin around us. "Just… not used to being the center of attention, I guess."

As we begin to move, I'm struck by how gracefully Denis leads. His touch is gentle yet firm, guiding me across the floor with effortless precision. Despite my attempts to remain aloof, I find my body responding to his, falling into step as if we've danced together a hundred times before.

"You're a natural," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I scoff, trying to ignore the shiver that runs down my spine. “Stop trying to flatter me.”

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "It's not flattery if it's true."

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. It's infuriating how charming he can be when he wants to! I try to focus on the steps, on anything but the warmth of his hand on my waist and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

But it's a losing battle. My traitorous body seems to melt into his embrace, and I'm hyper-aware of every point where we touch. My heart races, and I can't tell if it's from exertion or something else entirely.

"Stop thinking so hard," Denis says, giving me a gentle squeeze. "Just feel the music."

I want to snap at him, to remind him that this is all just for show. But the words die in my throat as he spins me out and then pulls me back in, closer than before. My breath catches, and I find myself staring up into his grey eyes, momentarily lost.

What am I doing? I’m supposed to keep him at arm’s bay for now, aren’t I? I’m supposed to lay down my boundaries here and now, so he doesn’t cross them later. So why does my heart flutter when he looks at me like that?

I hate this, I think to myself. I hate that I don't hate this as much as I should.

His gaze holds mine, intense and searching, as we move across the dance floor. Each step, each turn, feels charged with an electricity I can't explain. I try to look away, but my eyes are drawn back to his like a magnet.

I'm acutely aware of his hand on my waist, how his thumb traces small circles there. It sends shivers down my spine.

As the music swells to its finale, Denis dips me low. Time seems to slow as he brings me back up, our bodies pressed close. The world around us fades away—the glittering lights, the murmur of guests, even the music—until all I can focus on is him.

We stand there, frozen in the moment, our faces mere inches apart. I can feel his breath on my cheek, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. My heart pounds so loudly that I'm sure he must hear it.

"Natalia," he whispers, and the way he says my name makes me weak at the knees.

I know I should step away and break this spell before it's too late. But I can't move, can't breathe, can't think. All I can do is stand here, caught in his gaze, as the rest of the world disappears.

Suddenly, his lips are on mine, warm and insistent. The kiss catches me completely off guard, and for a moment, I'm frozen in shock. His mouth moves against mine, coaxing a response, and I feel myself melting into him despite all the promises I made to myself.

My mind races, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. This is wrong, I shouldn't be doing this. But oh, it feels so right. His hand cups the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and a small gasp escapes me. It's all the invitation he needs to deepen the kiss, and I find myself responding with a passion I didn't know I possessed.

Time seems to stand still as we're lost in our own world. The taste of him, the feel of his strong arms around me, it's intoxicating. I'm swept up in the moment, my body betraying my mind's protests. My hands, seemingly of their own accord, slide up his chest to rest on his broad shoulders.

And then, I hear people cheer and whoop and clap. As quickly as it began, reality comes crashing back—where I am, who I’m kissing. What am I doing? This man is the husband I never wanted, forced upon me by circumstance. The thought is like a bucket of cold water, shocking me back to my senses.

I pull away abruptly, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger—at him, at myself, at this whole impossible situation. My breath comes in short gasps as I struggle to regain my composure. I can feel the eyes of the guests on us, and it only adds to my mortification.

Denis watches me, his hands still on my waist. Slowly, I take one step back and his hands find way to his side. I steady my breathing and put on a smile, eyes moving to the guests cheering around us.

“What the hell was that?” I hiss under my breath.

“A man can’t kiss his wife?” he smiles back and whispers under his breath. The next thing I know, he takes my hand and raises it in the air.

The crowd goes absolutely mad.

I force myself to smile wider as Denisi bows, and I lower my head in humble gratitude.

“Not like that,” I hiss angrily under my breath, smile still on, turning back to face Denis. “This isn’t a fairy tale romance. It’s a business arrangement, nothing more.”

He lowers my hand but still holds my wrist. Denis's lips curl into a maddeningly calm smile. "Is that so?" he murmurs, his voice like velvet. "Your body seems to disagree."

I feel my cheeks flush even hotter. "You’re imagining things," I snap and pull away my hand, whispering as loud as I can without causing a scene. "This marriage is a sham, and you know it."

He takes a step closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away. "A sham?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "I assure you, Natalia, my intentions are very real."

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my heart races at his proximity. "Your intentions don't matter," I insist, lifting my chin defiantly. "I didn't choose this. I didn't choose you."

"And yet, here we are," Denis says, his voice maddeningly level. He reaches out, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. The gentle touch sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Perhaps it's time to make the best of our situation, don't you think?"

I grit my teeth, torn between wanting to slap his hand away and leaning into his touch. How can he be so infuriatingly calm? And why does that calm demeanor both irritate and intrigue me?

My mind races, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions I can't seem to grasp. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "I need some air," I mutter, more to myself than to Denis.

His dark eyes study me intently. "Of course," he says, his voice softer now.

I turn away, my legs feeling unsteady as I make my way through the crowd. The opulent ballroom suddenly feels suffocating, the cheerful chatter of guests grating on my nerves. I spot a balcony and make a beeline for it, desperate for a moment of solitude.

The cool night air hits my flushed skin as I step outside. I grip the ornate railing, my knuckles turning white. "Get it together, Natalia," I whisper to myself.

I hear someone behind me. I turn, emotions heightened and when I see who it is, my shoulders relax.

My best friend, Anya, comes and stands next to me at the railing. "You okay?" she whispers, concern etched on her face.

I paste on a smile. "Just needed some air. It's a lot to take in."

Anya squeezes my arm. "I can't imagine. But hey, at least your new husband is hot, right?"

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small laugh that escapes. "Anya!"

"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

I shake my head, grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood. But as I think of Denis, I can't deny the spark I felt earlier. It's unexpected and confusing, but undeniably there.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit quietly to Anya.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "Nobody does, Honey. But you're Natalia Orlov. If anyone can figure this out, it's you."

Her words echo my own earlier pep talk, and I feel a surge of determination. Whatever this is with Denis, whatever comes next, I'll face it on my own terms. I may not have chosen this marriage, but I can choose how I navigate it.

"You're right," I tell Anya, squaring my shoulders. "I've got this. Let’s go back inside.”