Page 22 of Ruthless Addiction

Vanya’s dark curls fell over his forehead just as Dmitri’s had before grief had silvered the temples. Every tilt of his head, every narrowing of his eyes, every delicate motion reminded me that he carried Dmitri’s soul in miniature. And now he would watch that soul pledge himself to another woman.

My throat tightened. “That’s the groom, sweetheart. That’s... the man whose wedding we came to see.”

Vanya didn’t blink.

His gaze was fixed, tethered to the altar by some invisible string.

I hated this, every fiber of me recoiling at the thought. The first time my son saw his father was not in a hug, or a quiet revelation, but here, across a cathedral aisle, with vows and a white dress in between.

I wanted to scoop him up, shield him from the betrayal of witnessing the man I loved promise eternity to someone else, but I could do nothing.

My heart ached at the knowledge that this memory—the first image of his father—would linger, burned into his young mind.

The priest lifted the microphone again.

“The bride may now enter the nave, accompanied by her paternal guardian.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over my chest.

The organ shifted seamlessly into the bridal march. Every head in the chapel pivoted, eyes bright, cameras glinting in the candlelight.

My pulse throbbed violently in my ears, each beat hammering against the hollow cage of my ribs.

The doors at the far end creaked open.

Seraphina Orlov appeared, gliding forward like a shard of ice cutting through the warmth of the room.

She was flawless, untouchable—a living echo of every cruel comparison Dmitri had ever thrown at me.

The gown was liquid silk, off-the-shoulder, hugging every line of her slender form, the cathedral-length train pooling behind her like untouched snow.

Her platinum hair gleamed in the morning light, swept into a chignon that spoke of impeccable control.

Diamonds flashed at her throat, at her ears—tiny constellations of privilege and power.

Beside her, the patriarch of the Orlov family, walked with that smug, assured triumph of a man who had bought not just a daughter’s hand, but the illusion of victory.

The world bowed to him, and today, it seemed, the world bowed to Dmitri as well.

My chest constricted so tightly I felt the air waver in my lungs.

A heart attack, or the sensation of one? I couldn’t tell.

Dmitri and I were still married. Legally. No divorce, no annulment, just the farce of a death certificate I had endured.

In the eyes of the Church, in the eyes of every dangerous person filling this pewed cathedral, I was nothing. Ash and memory. And yet here I was, alive, holding my son, and watching my husband—my tormentor—prepare to pledge himself to another woman.

Vanya’s gaze swung between Seraphina and Dmitri, finally resting on me.

Confusion flickered across his small, storm-grey face, mirroring his father’s stubborn frown.

My stomach knotted tighter. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t shield him from the sight of this orchestrated betrayal.

The bride reached the altar, and the priest’s voice boomed, rich and reverberating:

“Beloved in Christ, we are gathered here in the sight of God and this congregation to join in holy matrimony Dmitri Volkov, don of the Volkov family, and Seraphina Orlov, first daughter of the Orlov family.

“Dmitri Volkov, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you live together in marriage, love her, comfort her, honor and remain faithful to her, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in hardship, in joy and in sorrow, for as long as you both shall live?”