Page 34

SANDY

The scent of blooming gardenias drifts through the open doors, mingling with the distant hum of strings being tuned. Morning sunlight pours through the windows, bathing everything in a soft, golden glow.

I've been awake since before dawn, too restless to sleep. The morning arrives with a chorus of birdsong and perfect spring weather that feels almost aggressive in its beauty. Not a cloud in the sky, not too warm, not too cool, as if Mother Nature conspired to give us this flawless day.

“You need to eat something,” Talia insists, appearing in the doorway with a tray. She’s been fluttering around me all morning like a mother hen, ensuring I have everything I need while trying to hide her nervousness.

“I can't,” I say, pressing a hand to my stomach. “I'm too?—”

“Excited? Terrified? About to marry a dangerous Bratva enforcer?”

I shoot her a look. “All of the above.”

She sets the tray down on the small table by the window. It is filled with fresh fruit, croissants, and coffee that smells like heaven. “You might be too nervous to eat, but the baby needs food.”

“What if I trip walking down the aisle? What if I forget my vows? What if?—”

“What if you stop overthinking and let yourself be happy?”

I look at her reflection in the mirror, this woman who's been my sister in every way that matters since we were kids in the system. Her dark hair is already styled in an elegant updo, and she’s wearing a soft lavender dress that brings out her eyes.

As my maid of honor, she insisted on being completely ready early so she could focus on me.

“I am happy,” I say softly.

She moves to stand behind me, her hands resting gently on my shoulders. “You deserve this, sis. You deserve love, happiness, all of it.”

A knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Come in,” Talia calls.

Olga enters carrying a large white box, her face creased with the warm smile that has become familiar over the past months.

The older woman is not only the best nanny to the children, but she has taken it upon herself to mother both Talia and me from the moment we became part of the Avilov family.

Today, she looks as nervous and excited as if one of her children is getting married.

“The dress,” she announces, setting the box down with reverent care. “Are you ready?”

Am I ready? I nod, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.

The dress is a collaboration between a designer Aleksandr knows and my own very specific vision. I wanted something that felt like me. Elegant but not overdone, romantic but not frivolous. And it had to hide my pregnant belly. When we went for the final fitting last week, Talia had actually cried.

As Olga and Talia help me with it, I understand why.

The silk feels like water against my skin, cool and perfect.

The illusion neckline creates a sense of delicacy, while the fitted bodice emphasizes my waist. The beadwork glimmers in the morning light, throwing back tiny rainbows.

But what makes it truly special is how it feels.

It’s like armor and art combined. Like I can face anything in this dress.

I stand in front of the mirror, my fingers trembling slightly as I adjust the delicate lace sleeve on my shoulder.

The dress flows around me in waves of soft, white silk with intricate beadwork that shimmers when I move.

Talia stands behind me, tucking a loose curl behind my ear with gentle hands, her eyes already glassy.

“You're going to knock him dead,” she whispers with a teary smile.

I huff a shaky breath. “Let's hope not literally. This is the Bratva, after all.”

She laughs, the sound breaking through the tension in my chest. My fingers clutch the edge of the vanity for balance. It isn’t fear, just an overwhelming swell of everything. Love, disbelief, the ghosts of the past still clinging to the edges of this new life.

How did I get here? I am the girl who spent more nights staring at cracked ceilings and devising escape plans than dreaming about white dresses or forever.

The girl who’d been passed from foster home to foster home, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots.

The girl who’d learned early that counting on people was a mistake, that love was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

That survival meant keeping one foot always pointed toward the exit.

I'd built walls so high and thick that I'd forgotten there was supposed to be a door.

But Dimitri isn’t a dream. He is a storm I walked into with eyes wide open. He saw straight through every defense I built and decided I was worth the effort anyway. The man who’s been patient when I pushed him away, gentle when I expected violence, present when I expected abandonment.

“Your flowers,” Olga smiles, presenting me with a bouquet of white peonies and gardenias tied with ivory silk ribbon. “Mr. Dimitri chose them himself.”

Of course, he did. Peonies are my favorite. I mentioned it once, months ago, during one of our late-night conversations when he was still trying to convince me to give him a chance. He remembers everything.

“Are you nervous?” I ask Talia as she fusses with the train of my dress.

“Me? I'm not the one getting married.” She pauses in her fluffing. “But yes, I'm nervous. I'm nervous you're going to realize how perfect this is and spontaneously combust from happiness.”

A soft knock interrupts us again. “Ladies, it’s time for photos,” a voice calls from the hall.

The next hour passes in a flurry of posed shots and candid moments.

The photographer captures everything with an artist's eye.

Me with Talia, sharing a quiet moment by the window.

Me with Olga, who insists on being in at least one photo “for posterity.” Me alone, looking out over the gardens where, in just a few hours, I'll promise my life to a man who already owns my heart.

Through it all, I keep stealing glances at the clock. Not because I’m impatient but because each passing minute makes it more real. This isn’t a beautiful dream I'll wake up from. This is actually happening.

The sound of footsteps outside the door pulls me from my thoughts. There is a soft knock and then Aleksandr's voice. “It's time.”

My heart starts racing. Not from fear but from the sudden, overwhelming realization that in a few minutes, I'll see Dimitri. My almost-husband. The man who convinced me that forever isn’t a terrifying concept but a beautiful one.

Talia kisses my cheek quickly and slips out, leaving me alone.

I brush my fingers over the blackbird tattoo on my wrist, which Talia has inked on hers as well.

I still remember the night we got them as if it had just happened.

I was determined to move to New York and begged her to come with me.

But she’d just landed her job at the Rum Room in San Francisco and wasn’t ready to leave.

One terrible bottle of tequila and a pile of regretful tacos later, I dragged her into a dingy little tattoo shop on a whim.

Talia chose a tiny blackbird perched on a wire.

I picked one with its wings spread wide, soaring across the sky.

I told her it meant she’d always be with me, no matter how far I flew.

Standing here on the edge of forever, the irony isn’t lost on me. We both ended up in the same place, after all. Married to brothers. Wrapped in the same brutal, beautiful Bratva world.

I step out of the room. The corridor has been transformed with trailing ivy, candles in crystal holders, and white rose petals dusted along the floor like snow.

The subtle scent of roses blends with the rich aroma of expensive furniture polish, and the faint fragrance of the gardens wafts in on the breeze.

Lev stands at the end of the hall, waiting to escort me.

He cleans up remarkably well for the occasion, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit and looking almost uncomfortable with the formality of his appearance.

But his expression is soft and protective.

It’s the same look he wears when he watches Sasha, Maxim, and Angelina play in the garden.

As he offers his arm, I place my hand in his and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being family.”

It’s true. Over the past months, Lev has become like a protective older brother.

He taught me to shoot, accompanied me on shopping trips when Dimitri was busy, stood patiently outside dressing rooms, and carried bags without complaint.

He even helped me pick out Dimitri's wedding gift.

A vintage watch that had belonged to his grandfather, which I had restored and engraved.

He gave a small nod, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “Dimitri is a lucky man.”

“I'm the lucky one.”

“You're both lucky. That's what makes it work.”

Then he turns to lead me through the hall, past family portraits and expensive art, toward the doors that open onto the garden. With each step, I can hear the string quartet more clearly, the soft murmur of conversation, and the rustle of fabric as guests find their seats.

“Ready?” Lev asks as we reach the doors.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of flowers. “Ready.”

We step into the estate’s gardens, which are always beautiful, but today they are magical.

Rows of white chairs curve around the courtyard fountain, which is decorated with floating white roses.

Tall cypress trees wrapped in strands of gold-tipped lights create natural pillars along the sides of the seated area.

A white runner leads down the center, scattered with petals that shine in the afternoon light like tiny stars.