Page 117 of Maddening Fixation

Istood before the full-length mirror in the dimly lit dressing room tucked away behind the old stone church, my reflection staring back at me like a stranger dressed for someone else’s destiny.

My fingers trembled as I smoothed the intricate lace of my wedding gown for what had to be the tenth time, chasing away imaginary wrinkles simply to give my restless hands something to do.

The dress was a masterpiece.

It embodied the elegance of old Russia woven together with generations of Bratva wealth and tradition.

Hours earlier, the makeup artist and hairstylist had transformed me into the perfect Bratva bride.

My lips were painted a delicate shade of rose, soft enough to suggest happiness I didn’t possess.

My dark hair had been swept into an elegant chignon, adorned with pearls and tiny diamonds that sparkled beneath the lace veil trailing behind me like an uncertain ghost.

From the outside, I looked every inch the woman meant to stand beside a powerful man.

Inside, I felt as though I were falling apart one quiet crack at a time.

I inhaled slowly, but the tightly laced corset refused to let my lungs fully expand.

The restriction only made the anxiety clawing inside my chest feel worse.

This is it.

There is no turning back now.

My heartbeat pounded against my ribs with frantic determination, matching the distant melody of the church organ drifting faintly through the heavy oak door.

Guests were already gathering.

Families were taking their seats.

Somewhere beyond these walls, the man waiting at the altar was preparing to become my husband.

I had imagined my wedding day countless times growing up.

I had expected nerves.

Butterflies.

Maybe even tears of happiness.

But never this crushing emptiness.

Never this overwhelming loneliness.

And to make matters worse, the one person who should’ve been standing beside me, holding my hand and reminding me I wasn’t alone... wasn’t here.

The thought alone sent another wave of hurt crashing through me.

Yesterday morning, he’d vanished without warning, disappearing as though the earth itself had swallowed him whole.

Some of his men whispered that he’d gone abroad to forge a new alliance.

Others claimed he’d fled the country, fearing the wrath of Romeo Flynn—the man he’d so recklessly tried to have killed three days earlier.

I didn’t know which story was true.

But if it was true that my father’s men had been behind the attempt on Romeo’s life... if they had really orchestrated the ambush that would’ve succeeded had Romeo not stumbled into my car, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds, and ordered me to drive him to an abandoned warehouse where I helped stop the bleeding before he bled out...