Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
The makeup artist and hairstylist both hover around me, making last-minute adjustments to my face and hair. It won’t make any difference. Being wrapped up in a beautiful dress and expensive makeup doesn’t change the heaviness of this moment. They keep their voices low and polite, which is almost worse than being shouted at. I wish someone would react appropriately to this situation, just so I would know that I’m not going crazy.
A guard stands near the door with his hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed somewhere above my head. He avoids looking directly at my face, either out of training or superstition. Men like him believe eye contact invites trouble, and trouble is exactly what this room is full of.
I’m so aware of the baby growing inside of me, like we have a psychic connection and I’m trying to keep it calm. I feel its personhood so acutely.
Dahlia kneels to adjust the bottom of the skirt again.
“You look perfect,” she murmurs. “They’re going to be ready for you in a few minutes.”
I stare straight ahead. “Great,” I murmur dispassionately.
She nods and gives me a weak smile. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head right now, especially after our conversation. Not that her feelings matter. They won’t stop me from what needs to be done.
The door opens and two more men step in, both dressed like security but sharper than the ones who stand outside doors. Their posture is rigid, and they’re strapped. They don’t look like normal security guards. They look like actual soldiers. They look like they’re prepared for a battle.
The taller one speaks first.
“It’s time to go,” he tells me gruffly.
The women step back immediately. One of them makes a small sign of the cross without thinking, then catches herself and drops her hand quickly. The gesture makes me feel even more hopeless. Sympathy doesn’t help me. Sympathy gets people killed.
I straighten my back and grab my bouquet from off the table. I walk toward the men, indicating that they’d better not touch me. The guard nearest to me shifts as if he expects me to bolt. There’s nowhere to bolt to. Every hallway in this place leads to another locked door and another set of armed men.
My heels click softly against the floor as they guide me out. A wedding dress and high heels are just costume pieces. They are meant to make me look ornamental. Mikhail thinks that if I look the part, I’ll act the part. He wants me to be compliant, and thinks he can force me to do it because we’ll have an audience.
The hallway outside the main hall is lined with men. Some wear suits, some wear tactical gear under coats, some are dressed in black tie, but I can still see the bulges of their guns. They all look at me the same way, with curiosity and calculation. They don’t see a bride. They see a prize and a warning.
The air changes as we get closer to the chapel. I can hear voices now, a low murmur of conversation, laughter, glasses clinking, the sound of a crowd that’s come for the wedding of the century. They know why they’re here though The Bratva elite doesn’t gather for romance. They gather for power displays and bloodless humiliations, and today I’m the centerpiece.
The doors to the main hall open.
The space is enormous, designed to make people feel small. It has been decorated like a wedding, but it is very obviously a warehouse. White fabric is draped over beams. Flowers are arranged in thick clusters, too perfect and too symmetrical. Candlelight flickers along tables set with crystal and gold accents. The Grinkovs clearly spent a lot of money on this wedding, but it couldn’t buy them any class.
The guests turn their heads as soon as I step into view. Dangerous men with their trophy wives. The women don’t look at me sympathetically. They watch me like they’re jealous. As if Mikhail is such a fucking prize.
Conversations taper off in sections as people notice me standing there. They all look on to catch a glimpse of the runaway bride. She’s been found. She’s been brought home safely. The drama of the last two months can finally be put to rest.
My skin prickles, but I keep my face composed. I don’t like the attention under normal circumstances, but now it feels suffocating. I remind myself to breathe.
The guards on either side of me keep moving, guiding me forward at a steady pace. They aren’t dragging me, because that would look bad for the cameras. This is theater, and the actors need to hit their marks.
I keep my gaze forward and let my peripheral vision do the work. I take in faces I recognize from childhood gatherings, men who shook my father’s hand and kissed my cheek like I was family. Some of them look away, embarrassed. Some of them look entertained. A few look almost sympathetic, but sympathy in this room is meaningless now. There’s nothing that can be done about this.