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Her black curls cascade down her cheeks and back, framing her delicate face like a waterfall of ink. Upon her head is the most delicate net veil, accented with pearls. The ivory gown she wears clings to her curves, accentuating her slender waist and the graceful arc of her hips. The dress is cut daringly low. Her beauty is undeniable, though untraditional—I can hear some of the older women gossip at the sight of her figure, exposed beyond tradition—but she’s leaving me breathless and weak in the knees.
As she begins her slow, measured walk toward the altar, I’m struck by a sudden realization: soon, she will become my wife. All those years ago, when I first laid eyes on her, I never dared to dream that this day would come. And now, as she moves closer, the gravity of what lies ahead sinks in.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Ivan whispers to me. I nod, unable to tear my gaze away from her.
“More than beautiful,” I murmur. “She is everything.”
But it’s only when she walks closer that I notice her emerald eyes shimmer with unshed tears, giving her an ethereal appearance. I frown. To most, tears would indicate a happy bride, but I know better than to believe that.
My heart lurches into my throat.Caterina, is the thought of marrying me truly so saddening as to bring tears to your eyes?
Before I can process her tears, I hear Sergei hiss something under his breath and point at Caterina. I turn to see what he’s playing at, and notice him exchanging glances with Vanya, who is standing in the front row, giving Sergei a horrified look instead of watching Caterina walk down the aisle.
I feel angry, mortified, and confused as to why my two siblings are being so dismissive of the bride’s entry.
“Are you nervous, brother?” Sergei’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.
“Shouldn’t I be?” I reply, my tone sharp as I try to contain my frustration with his constant meddling.
“Well, your bride did cut up our mother’s dress.”
“Not now, Sergei,” I whisper back, turning back to my bride and her father.
“When, then?” Sergei drawls. I don’t respond but hear Ivan putting him in his place. Sergei doesn’t mutter a word after.
Chapter 8 - Caterina
My father’s arm rests on mine. I can feel the cold metal of his cuff links pressing against my skin.
“Remember your place, Caterina,” he whispers menacingly, as if reading my thoughts. “Don’t disgrace our family.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I take slow, measured steps down the aisle. The red cape, a symbol of this arranged union, suddenly feels suffocating. I want to scream, to flee, but I bite my tongue and continue onward.For my daughter, I remind myself.For her future.
My wedding day wasn’t supposed to be this way. I always dreamed of finding a man who would go to the ends of the earth for me, and I for him. I was supposed to be excited, joyful. I wanted to pick my own flowers and dress, the cake, the venue, the band. Now, Mikhail’s family did it all and didn’t once include me in any of the decisions.
Emiliana was to be the flower girl in my imagined wedding, but today I have her hidden away in one of the back rows, for fear of Mikhail putting two and two together. I must keep her away from him, even if we are to live under the same roof.
As we near the altar, my gaze locks on Mikhail. Mikhail Zolotov stands tall, his hands clasped behind his back. He looks every bit the handsome Bratva boss that he is—his dark hair slicked back, his sharp jawline accentuated by the shadow of a beard, and his tailored suit clinging to his powerful frame.
The sight of him evokes a whirlwind of emotions within me. Memories of late-night rendezvous, passionate kisses, and whispered promises of forever echo through my mind. The manI once loved with all my heart, now a painful reminder of the heartbreak he left behind.
My breath hitches as we come face-to-face. I used to dream of this moment, of being led to my handsome prince, exchanging vows surrounded by loved ones. Instead, I’m a sacrificial lamb at the altar of my father’s ambition, bound to a man who was once my whole world but is now a stranger.
Where has he been all these years?
We reach the altar.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” the priest intones.
“I do,” my father states gruffly, his tone brooking no argument. His voice has an undertone of satisfaction that sickens me. He’s enjoying the power he holds and displays over my life. I’m his to give away, after all.
As my father releases my arm and places my hand into Mikhail’s, I feel the weight of their gazes upon me—my father’s watchful, Mikhail’s expectant. Mikhail’s grip is firm yet surprisingly gentle. My hands are shaking, and I fear Mikhail can sense my weakness.
My father steps back. From now on, I belong to Mikhail, bound by vows I never wished to take. His penetrating gaze bores into me, as if trying to decipher the tumult raging within. I stare ahead, focusing on a point just past his shoulder, unable to meet the intensity of his eyes.
“Are you alright?” Mikhail asks softly, his voice barely audible above the murmurs of the guests.
“Fine,” I reply, my tone clipped and guarded.
