“We’ll see.”
The ceremony was arranged in minutes, with a clinical, efficient sort of precision. I refused to change into the dress, and he didn’t even force me. The officiator returned, clearly having just been waiting outside, and the flowers were arranged around us like a mockery of romance. I stood rigidly while he stood opposite me, unshaken and unmoved.
The officiator cleared his throat and began, “State your full name.”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Elisse Chernykh.” His eyes flickered, just slightly, making me wonder if he had already known who I was.
“State your full name.” It was his turn, and he waited for a beat.
“Fyodor Romanov.”
The name crashed into me like ice. Romanov. This was Ilana’s brother, and suddenly everything began to make sense.
“You—” I breathed, my eyes widening in horror. He had known from the very beginning who I was, and now I finally knew exactly who he was as well. The officiator continued, oblivious to the earthquake between us.
“Elisse Chernykh, do you—”
I barely heard the words. Romanov. Of course. Of course he was. I dragged my gaze back to his face.
“You planned this,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
The officiator prompted me again.
“Do you consent?”
Consent. The word tasted bitter in my mouth while I looked at Fyodor Romanov, blood in my eyes. His calculated eyes and controlled breathing told me everything I needed to know about him.
“You will regret binding yourself to me,” I said softly.
“Maybe,” he replied, still appearing unbothered.
The officiator waited as the room held its breath, and finally, I said the one word that sealed it all together and bound me to him and him to me. Forever.
“Yes.”
The vows continued in the same cold way, legal and irreversible, both of us repeating our own. Until now, the war between our families had felt distant to me, but suddenly, with this one act, it had become personal. And it had finally become mine.
Chapter 8 - Fyodor
The door closed behind the officiator with a soft, decisive click, filling the house with an uncomfortable silence. It was not the heavy, charged quiet of anticipation but slightly different. It felt like the silence that came with the aftermath. The flowers still lined the hall like a grotesque parody of celebration. White petals against dark wood, their scent clinging to the air, too sweet, too clean, too wrong for what had just happened. She stood across from me, spine straight, chin lifted, eyes blazing.
Elisse Chernykh. My wife.
The word landed in my chest like a controlled detonation while I watched the realization move through her in waves. She was not shocked anymore and not confused either. Instead, I could see the rage she felt surface. Pure, incandescent rage.
“You’re a Romanov,” she said, her voice almost eerily calm.
“Yes.”
“Fyodor Romanov.”
“Yes.”
“So you knew who I was from the very beginning?”
