Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
The words hung in the air, cold and sharp as a blade.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
I turned back to the mirror, my reflection staring back at me, a stranger in a wedding gown.
This dress was a cage.
And the wedding wasn’t about love or devotion.
It was about survival.
“She wasn’t seen as his wife,” Samara said, her voice gentle but firm. “Everyone knew what she did. Even here. She didn’t respect the honor of having the Ivanov name, so our enemies didn’t respect the protection it should have offered her.”
“The honor?” I repeated, my voice flat as I stared at Samara like she had lost her mind. “Are you serious? Are you three in some kind of Stockholm syndrome haze? Honor?”
The boutique, with its soft lighting, its delicate lace gowns, and its intoxicating blend of perfume and champagne, suddenly felt overwhelming. The walls pressed in, the mirrors reflecting back a version of myself that I didn’t recognize—a woman being groomed, dressed, prepared for a future she had no say in.
“Marrying Kostya is a prison sentence,” I spat, my voice rising despite my effort to keep calm. “He has taken every choice away from me. I made a life here. I have dreams, goals, aspirations. All of which he is ripping away from me.”
I didn’t really know these women, but I had to get this out. “I want to be my own woman. Instead, I was informed—not asked, informed—that I am going to marry a brutish thug. The same brutish thug who put me in danger in the first place, might I add. And now he’s taking me back to Russia, giving me an allowance, and keeping me in his home so I can give him tons of brutish thug babies.”
The hysteria creeping into my voice scared me, but I couldn’t stop. My heart pounded, my hands clenched into fists against the delicate fabric of my gown.
“He didn’t even ask,” I choked out, blinking against the heat behind my eyes. “He never asked what I wanted. If I wanted to go back to Russia. If I wanted to stay in America. If I wanted to live in his home or build a new one together.” My throat tightened painfully. “What if I don’t want to be a mother?”
The girls exchanged another look. That same silent conversation they’d been having since this entire ordeal began, communicating in a language I didn’t understand.
Nadia reached into her clutch and handed me a tissue, her expression softer now, her eyes laced with something almost like sympathy.
“Do you want to be a mother?” someone asked.
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice quieter now, raw around the edges. “But I’d at least like to be involved in making that decision.”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
I tilted my head back, staring up at the boutique’s gilded ceiling, trying to will away the tears threatening to spill.
“This life isn’t so bad,” Samara said finally, her voice softer. “Kostya is doing what he needs to do to save your life. Without his protection, the chances of you having a life to live are slim to none.”
I pushed my rising panic down.
“Ivanov men always get what they want,” Yelena added. “That doesn’t mean you can’t make them see reason.” Her voice turned speculative, sharp with an edge of something knowing. “If this was just about keeping you safe, he would have shipped you off somewhere. Maybe even used you as bait.”
“Nobody needs to hear that right now,” Nadia snapped, shooting her a glare.
“What?” Yelena shrugged, unbothered. “You know I love Damien, but let’s be real. We know what business they’re in. We may see the civilized side of them, but none of us are naïve enough to think our men don’t operate in the gray. And sometimes, the pitch black.”
Her words just added to my growing dread.
“They won’t do anything horrible without reason,” she added. “But let’s not pretend any of us are married to saints.”
Nadia clenched her jaw, but didn’t argue.
Samara only smirked.
And I stood there in a wedding dress that wasn’t mine, staring at three women who had already made peace with the lives they were living, realizing with a deep, bone-chilling certainty…
This wasn’t just about my safety.
Kostya wanted me.
And he would not let me go.
"Look, what I’m saying is that Kostya must love you," Yelena said, her voice steady, as if she were explaining something simple, something obvious. "He wouldn’t marry you without loving you, especially not after how his first marriage turned out. When we learned Veronika died, no one here mourned her."
I stiffened, my fingers crushing the delicate lace of the dress.
"I’m sorry," she added quickly. "I know she was your sister. But for us, it gave Kostya his freedom back. He wouldn’t give that up again so easily unless he wanted to."
My stomach twisted. "So because he’s willing to be shackled to me, I should be grateful that he’s forcing me into this?"