Page 17

The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the murmur of voices. A low hum of anticipation buzzes in the air, but it’s muted—nothing over the top. I wanted this wedding to be small, intimate. Close family, trusted friends, no unnecessary eyes to witness what is ultimately a transaction disguised as a ceremony.

I stand at the altar, my hands clasped loosely in front of me, my expression composed. My tuxedo feels stiff, unfamiliar, as if it doesn’t belong on my body. I’m used to control, to power, to commanding attention when I enter a room. Standing here feels… different. Exposed, almost.

I keep my face impassive.

The children’s laughter draws my gaze to the side. Alyssa and Leo are seated with Katya, my mother. She looks radiant, happier than I’ve seen her in years. She leans in close to Alyssa, who’s whispering something in her ear, and the two of them burst into giggles. Leo sits quietly beside them, his small hand wrapped around hers, his bear tucked under his other arm. He watches everything with wide, curious eyes, taking it all in.

Katya adores them already. It didn’t take long. She’s doted on her other grandchildren for years, and now, with Alyssa and Leo in her life, it’s like she’s been given a second wind. It’s hard not to feel some satisfaction watching her beam with pride, her joy so genuine it almost softens the tension in my chest.

Almost.

I adjust my cuff links, forcing myself to focus. This is a formality, I remind myself. A necessity. The ceremony, the vows—it’s all for appearances. Chiara knows that as well as I do.

When the music begins, my breath hitches before I catch myself. I glance toward the entrance, and there she is.

Chiara.

She’s breathtaking.

The dress fits her perfectly, every detail accentuating her curves without being overly elaborate. Her dark hair falls in soft waves, framing her face, and even from this distance, I can see the faint tension in her jaw, the way she holds her chin just a little higher as if daring anyone to pity her.

Her steps are slow, measured, her hand resting lightly on Roman’s arm as he escorts her down the aisle. She’s not smiling, but she isn’t trembling either. She looks like she’s walking to her execution and refusing to give her captors the satisfaction of fear.

The room blurs for a moment as my focus narrows entirely on her. On the way the soft light catches the lace of her dress. On the set of her lips, pressed tightly together. On the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes when she glances at the children.

She doesn’t look at me until she’s standing directly in front of me. When her gaze finally meets mine, it’s a challenge.

I take her hand as Roman steps back, his expression neutral but approving. Her fingers are cool, her grip firm.

The officiant begins to speak, but I barely register the words. I’m too focused on her, on the way her chest rises and falls with each measured breath. She’s keeping it together, but just barely.

When it’s time for the vows, she hesitates. A brief pause, so brief I doubt anyone else notices, but I do.

Her voice shakes as she begins. The words feel forced, like she’s dragging them out of herself. “I, Chiara Vinci, take you, Serge Sharov—” She swallows hard, her eyes flickering down to my hand before meeting mine again. “—to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

Her voice wavers, but she gets through it. I can see the strain it takes, the effort to make it sound even remotely sincere.

My turn is easier. I’ve made vows before—to family, to loyalty, to bloodlines. This is no different. My voice is steady, unshaken.

When the officiant declares us husband and wife, there’s a pause. A moment where I could pull her closer, kiss her, make it official in a way that would leave no room for doubt.

I don’t.

Instead, I lift her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her knuckles. Her skin is soft, delicate, and for a moment, the scent of her surrounds me—subtle, floral, intoxicating. I pull back quickly before I let it go to my head.

I don’t kiss her lips. I know better than to go there. Her lips drive me wild in ways I can’t afford right now. Not here, not in front of an audience, not when I’m supposed to be in control.

The applause is polite, restrained. This isn’t the kind of crowd that cheers wildly for a wedding. It’s not that kind of wedding.

Chiara’s hand trembles slightly in mine, and I glance down at her. Her expression is blank, carefully composed, but her lips are pressed tightly together again. She’s barely holding herself together.

Katya stands, holding Alyssa’s hand as they approach. Alyssa practically skips down the aisle, her face lit with excitement. “Mommy, you’re so pretty!” she exclaims, tugging on Chiara’s dress.

Chiara forces a smile, kneeling slightly to meet her daughter’s gaze. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Leo hesitates, clinging to Katya’s hand, his wide eyes darting between Chiara and me. When I crouch down, holding my arms open, he takes a small step forward, then another.

“Come here,” I say softly.

He stares at me for a moment longer before finally letting go of Katya’s hand and running into my arms. I lift him easily, his small frame fitting perfectly against me.

It’s a strange feeling, holding him like this. He’s so small, so fragile, yet there’s a strength in him, a quiet resilience I can’t help but admire.

“You did great,” I murmur, my voice low enough for only him to hear.

He nods against my shoulder, his fingers clutching at my jacket.

Alyssa climbs into Chiara’s lap as Katya wraps an arm around her new daughter-in-law. My mother’s face is glowing, her joy unmistakable.

“They’re perfect,” she whispers to me as I rise to my full height.

I glance at Chiara again, at the way she holds Alyssa close, her smile strained but genuine for the children.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “They are.”

Perfection comes with a price. One I’m not sure Chiara is willing to pay.

***

The ballroom is subdued, filled with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of crystal glasses. It’s exactly as I planned—restrained, controlled, nothing flashy or chaotic. For a wedding afterparty, it’s a far cry from the gaudy celebrations some of my guests might have expected. But I don’t do anything for show. Everything here serves a purpose.

My gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the careful movements of those in attendance. My men stand scattered among the guests, their presence subtle but unmistakable. No one would dare step out of line here—not with me at the center of it all.

I sip my whiskey slowly, watching the way Chiara hovers near the edge of the room, her shoulders tense and her head held high. She’s not wearing the mask of a blushing bride, and I didn’t expect her to. Chiara doesn’t belong to this world, not yet. But she will.

Jennifer approaches her, and I catch their brief exchange from across the room. Jennifer leans in, speaking quietly, and Chiara’s posture softens slightly. For a moment, she looks less like a cornered animal and more like the woman I met long ago—fierce, stubborn, unyielding.

It’s a fleeting moment. The tension ripples through the room again as Maxim approaches me, his presence commanding attention without effort.

“I don’t know how to feel about this,” Maxim says, his voice low but steady.

I glance at him, my expression impassive. “Feel however you like. It doesn’t change anything.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “I don’t regret killing her father, you know. The bastard deserved worse for what he tried to do to my wife.”

His words are matter-of-fact, but I see Chiara stiffen in the distance. Her movements are quick, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she strides toward us, her anger unmistakable.

“Chiara,” Jennifer calls after her, a soft warning in her tone, but it’s too late.

“Ah, the bride herself,” Maxim says as she approaches, his smirk deepening.

“You don’t regret killing my father,” she says, her voice shaking but loud enough to draw attention. “Good for you. I’m sorry if I can’t be as cool about it.”

Maxim’s gaze darkens, and he steps closer to her, his towering presence intimidating. “You should be grateful,” he says, his tone sharp. “Your father was a monster. You, of all people, should know that.”

I step forward, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Stay down, Chiara.”

She ignores me, her fury boiling over. “Grateful? For what? Losing the only family I had left? For watching my world fall apart while you played executioner?”

Timur appears at Maxim’s side, his hand firm on his shoulder. “That’s enough,” Timur says, his voice steady but unyielding.

After a tense pause, Maxim allows himself to be guided away, though his glare lingers on Chiara for a moment longer.

I step in front of her, blocking her view of him, my tone icy. “Do not argue with him.”

Her chest heaves, her anger still simmering. “I’m sorry if I can’t be okay with the man who killed my father.”

I narrow my eyes, my voice low and deliberate. “You tried to kill my brother. Do you think we’ve forgotten that?”

Her defiance falters for a split second, her expression flickering with guilt before she regains her composure.

Before she can respond, Alyssa’s laughter rings out across the room, light and pure, cutting through the tension. I glance over my shoulder to see her perched on Katya’s lap, Leo nestled against her side. Katya whispers something to Leo, and his small face lights up with a smile, his hand wrapping tightly around hers.

Chiara’s anger drains as she watches them, her shoulders softening. She crosses the room toward them, her focus entirely on the children. Alyssa spots her first and leaps from Katya’s lap, running into her mother’s arms.

“Mommy! Did you see Grandma Kat? She says we’re staying at her house tonight!”

Chiara blinks, her expression faltering. “What?”

“We’re sleeping over,” Alyssa says, grinning. “She said we can stay up late too!”

Katya rises gracefully, taking Leo’s hand in hers as she approaches. Chiara’s confusion is written plainly across her face.

“They’ve never slept without me,” she says, her voice laced with disbelief.

Katya offers her a gentle smile. “No matter the circumstances, this is your wedding day, Chiara. And your wedding night. The children will be safe with me. You have my word.”

Chiara hesitates, her grip tightening on Alyssa, but Katya leans down to kiss the girl’s cheek and gently pulls her away. Leo clings to Chiara for a moment longer before Katya crouches beside him, whispering softly. Whatever she says works, and he lets go, taking Katya’s hand again.

“Say goodbye to Mommy,” Katya says gently.

“Bye, Mommy!” Alyssa chirps, waving enthusiastically.

Leo looks up at her, his voice small. “You’ll come get us tomorrow, right?”

“Of course,” Chiara whispers, brushing her fingers through his hair.

Katya gives her a reassuring nod before leading the children out of the room. Chiara watches them go, her expression torn between relief and worry.

“They’ll be fine,” I say, my tone softer than I intend.

She glances at me, her voice tight. “I know.”

I step closer, holding her gaze. “Do you?”

Her eyes harden, but I see the doubt flicker in them. “I trust Katya with them. That doesn’t mean I trust you.”

My lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Fair enough.”

Her disbelief rises again, her words cutting through the space between us. “Are we going to consummate the wedding night? I’m assuming that’s why your mother was so insistent on taking the kids.”

I smirk faintly, letting the silence stretch before responding. “We’re sharing a room,” I say simply. “You’re my wife now. You’ll live as one in every aspect.”

Her expression tightens, but I step closer, lowering my voice as I lean in. “That,” I whisper, “is your punishment.”

Her breath catches, the slightest hitch that betrays her composure. I don’t move, letting the silence settle between us, my dark gaze fixed on hers. She doesn’t back away, but her defiance is fraying at the edges. I can see it in the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her face, in the way her shoulders tense as if bracing for the next blow.

“You think this is a punishment?” she snaps, her voice sharper now, trying to claw back the control she knows she doesn’t have.

I tilt my head slightly, my reply calm, unwavering. “I know it is. You hate me, Chiara. That much is obvious. Now you’ll have to live with me, in my world, under my rules. That’s your reality.”

Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, her fury barely contained. “You think you can control me like this?” she says, the words biting but laced with fear she tries desperately to mask.

I allow a faint smirk to play at my lips, deliberate and dangerous. “I already do.”

She flinches, barely, but it’s enough. Enough to tell me that my words have struck deeper than she’d like to admit. Her eyes blaze with defiance, but her body betrays her, the tension in her frame pulling her taut as a bowstring.

“Then you’ve underestimated me,” she spits, her voice trembling but still filled with fire.

I take a step closer, watching as her hands curl into fists at her sides. She doesn’t retreat, even as I invade the small space between us. “Maybe I have,” I say quietly, my tone almost reflective. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

Her nails dig into her palms, her knuckles white with the effort to steady herself. I know I’m pushing her, testing how far she’ll go before she cracks. I can see the war in her eyes, the fight between anger and fear, between standing her ground and giving in.

“You can force me into this marriage, Serge,” she says, her voice low but trembling with barely contained rage. “You can’t force me to be your wife in the way you want.”

Her words should sting, but they don’t. Instead, they spark something darker, something that tightens in my chest and sharpens my focus. I step closer still, until there’s no space left between us, until my presence becomes something she can’t ignore.

“Careful, Chiara,” I warn, my voice low, edged with steel. “You’re not in control here. Remember that.”

The air between us feels heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. She swallows hard, her jaw tightening as her gaze refuses to waver. She’s trying to be strong, trying to hold on to what little power she thinks she has left.

I lean back slightly, giving her a fraction of space, but my words remain heavy in the air. For now, she won’t break, but I can see the cracks forming, and I know it’s only a matter of time.