Chapter Nine - Chloe
I sit stiffly on the edge of the plush chair, the designer’s studio exuding an air of indulgent excess that makes my skin crawl. My hands clench tightly in my lap, nails digging into my palms as my mother and sister flit around the room, their excitement palpable.
Rows of luxurious fabrics spill across the table like shimmering rivers of silk and lace. Intricate sketches of bridal gowns, each more elaborate than the last, are fanned out in an orderly display.
The sketches came from him. Erik Sharov.
I feel the bile rise in my throat at the thought. I’m not just marrying a man I didn’t choose; I’m walking down the aisle in a dress he designed—or, more likely, commissioned someone to design. The realization tastes bitter, but I swallow it down, just like I’ve swallowed everything else about this arrangement.
“This wedding must be nothing short of grand,” my mother declares, lifting a delicate veil adorned with tiny glass beads to the light. She tilts her head, appraising it like an art collector sizing up a masterpiece. “Every detail should exude elegance. The Sharov family will expect nothing less.”
My elder sister nods eagerly, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “It’s going to be incredible . Imagine the guest list! Heads of industry, foreign dignitaries, maybe even a royal or two.” She clasps her hands together, her expression dreamy. “This isn’t just a wedding; it’s the event of the year.”
My stomach churns as I watch them, their voices blending into a hum of self-congratulation and shallow aspirations. I feel like a bystander in my own life, watching them orchestrate a spectacle that has nothing to do with love or partnership and everything to do with power and status.
The designer, a petite woman with an intimidating air of professionalism, flits between them with a clipboard in hand. She scribbles notes as my mother gestures animatedly to a bolt of pearl-white satin, nodding along to every overly specific demand.
Occasionally, the designer casts a cursory glance in my direction, as though expecting me to chime in. I don’t.
My throat tightens as I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. What’s the point? I already know how this will go. If I voice an opinion, it will be brushed aside, dismissed as trivial or “ungrateful.”
My mother will sigh dramatically, my sister will roll her eyes, and the designer will quietly proceed with the original plan, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
So I sit in silence, my thoughts swirling in a storm of defiance and resignation. My feelings, my desires—they don’t matter. To my family, this isn’t a union; it’s a transaction. A merger between two empires. A lavish spectacle to flaunt their importance and secure their foothold in a world I don’t even want to be part of.
And yet, as I sit here letting the room buzz around me, my mind refuses to surrender entirely. My thoughts keep circling back to the restaurant, to him .
Erik.
The way his gaze bore into me is seared into my memory, haunting me in quiet moments like this. His eyes were cold and calculating, assessing me with the detached precision of someone evaluating a business asset. Yet there was something else lurking in them—a spark, an intensity that made me feel raw and exposed.
It wasn’t just fear that gripped me in that moment. Oh, I was scared, terrified even. Beneath the fear, there was something I can’t explain. A thrill. It had danced along my spine, sharp and electric, leaving me breathless and disoriented.
I shake the thought away, disgusted with myself. How could I feel anything but anger toward him? Erik Sharov is the embodiment of everything I despise: power without accountability, control without consent. And yet, his presence unsettles me in ways I can’t ignore.
“Chloe, dear,” my mother’s voice cuts through my thoughts, saccharine and patronizing. “What do you think of this one?”
She holds up a sketch of a gown that’s both elaborate and suffocating, the kind of dress that would take an entire team to lace up. I glance at it briefly, my jaw tightening. “It’s fine,” I mutter, forcing the words out.
“Fine?” she repeats, her brow arching. “Darling, this is a Sharov wedding. Fine isn’t good enough.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say flatly, because it’s easier than arguing.
My sister beams, already imagining herself in the photos. “I think it’s perfect. Regal, elegant, unforgettable. Just like the wedding.”
Just like the wedding. Not the marriage, not the life I’ll be shackled to after it’s over.
The designer jots something down on her clipboard, seemingly satisfied, and moves to the next option. My mother and sister fall back into their rhythm, their chatter filling the air as I retreat further into my thoughts.
No matter how many sketches they approve or fabrics they swoon over, it doesn’t change the truth: this wedding isn’t about me. It’s about them . My family. Their reputation. Their ties to Erik’s world.
I have no idea what he truly wants from this. Does he care about the wedding at all, or is it just another calculated move in his endless game of power?
I think back to the way he spoke to me, the quiet authority in his voice. He didn’t ask if I wanted this. He didn’t care about my objections. He simply stated what would happen, as if it were inevitable. As if I were already his.
I hate the way those words echo in my mind, steady and unyielding.
Deep down, a part of me isn’t sure if I can fight him.
“Chloe,” my mother snaps, pulling me out of my thoughts again. She’s holding up another veil, her patience clearly wearing thin. “You could at least pretend to be interested. This is your wedding, after all.”
I force a tight smile, my hands still clenched in my lap. “It’s beautiful,” I repeat, the words tasting like ash.
She narrows her eyes at me, but she doesn’t press further, returning to her discussion with the designer.
I sit there, the storm in my chest growing stronger with every passing moment. I can feel the weight of this marriage pressing down on me, the walls of this studio closing in like a prison cell.
Beneath the fear and frustration, that spark of defiance refuses to die. I might be trapped, but I won’t go quietly.
Erik Sharov might think he’s won, but he doesn’t know me.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory of Erik’s gaze, the unsettling way it had pierced through my defenses. Whatever that feeling was—the thrill, the heat—it doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant.
This marriage may be inevitable, forced upon me by my father’s ambitions, but I refuse to let it control me. I won’t give Erik Sharov the satisfaction of seeing me consumed by it—or by him. He may dictate the terms of this arrangement, but he won’t dictate how I feel.
I straighten my back, folding my hands neatly in my lap as though the simple action can ground me. My mother, who has been engrossed in yet another discussion with the designer, suddenly notices my expression.
She pauses mid-sentence, giving me a sharp look, and excuses herself from the conversation.
She crosses the room and sits beside me, her posture stiff and her movements deliberate. Her lips press into a thin line before she speaks. “Chloe.”
It’s not a question.
I glance at her, suppressing the sigh threatening to escape. “Yes?”
Her gaze softens slightly, though there’s a tension in her eyes that puts me on edge. “You need to stop this sulking.”
“I’m not sulking,” I reply, though even I can hear the defensive edge in my tone.
“You are,” she insists. “It’s pointless. What’s done is done. Your father made the commitment, and we can’t back out now.”
I frown, my chest tightening. “Why? What’s stopping him from just… calling it off?”
Her expression hardens, and for a moment, she looks almost frightened. “You don’t understand. This isn’t like calling off some business deal, Chloe. These people—” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “You don’t know them. They’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” The word feels foreign in my mouth, too dramatic for the polished world of wealth and privilege my family has always inhabited. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” she says sharply, lowering her voice, “that you can’t afford to make them angry. They don’t play by the same rules we do. If we tried to back out now, the consequences would be….” She trails off, her lips pressing together in a grim line.
I stare at her, a cold weight settling in my stomach. She’s always been overdramatic, but this feels different. There’s a gravity in her voice that I can’t ignore, no matter how much I want to.
“Mom, you’re being ridiculous,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction. “They’re just another powerful family. Wealthy, yes, but they’re not—”
“They’re not like us,” she interrupts firmly, her eyes boring into mine. “You need to understand that. This isn’t just about money or status. There are… darker things at play here. Things you don’t need to know about.”
Her words send a chill down my spine, though I refuse to let it show. “So, what? I’m just supposed to go along with this because you’re scared of them?”
Her expression softens again, and she reaches out to take my hand. “I’m not saying this to scare you, Chloe. I’m saying it because I love you. I want you to be safe.”
Safe . The word echoes in my mind, hollow and meaningless. How can I feel safe when I’m being pushed into a marriage with a man who looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved?
I force a faint smile, my fingers curling around hers. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I say softly. “I’ll behave. I won’t do anything… funny.”
Her shoulders relax slightly, though the tension doesn’t entirely leave her face. “Good. That’s all I ask.”
She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before standing and rejoining the designer, her voice regaining its practiced warmth as she resumes her discussion.
I watch her go, the storm in my chest growing stronger.
Dangerous.
The word repeats in my mind, refusing to be ignored. My mother’s warning plays over and over, though it only leaves me with more questions. What aren’t they telling me?
I glance toward Amelia, my older sister, who is now chatting animatedly with the designer about floral embroidery. She looks perfectly at ease, like this is just another business meeting.
Of course, Amelia wouldn’t be in this position. My parents never would’ve considered marrying her off, not when she’s so deeply entrenched in the family business. She’s always been the dutiful daughter, the one who knows how to charm clients and close deals. The one who makes herself indispensable.
Then there’s me. The youngest. The expendable one.
I bite the inside of my cheek again, hard enough to sting. This marriage isn’t about me, or even Erik. It’s about what I represent: a bargaining chip, a way to solidify my father’s alliances. My feelings, my life, are just collateral damage.
Still, I can’t shake the unease creeping into my thoughts. My mother’s warning wasn’t just about Erik; it was about the entire Sharov family. The vague way she spoke about them, the fear in her eyes—it wasn’t like her. It makes me wonder just how much worse this situation could get.
I sit back in the chair, my gaze drifting to the rows of sketches and fabrics, the laughter and chatter filling the room. To everyone else, this is just another grand production, a wedding to be celebrated and envied.
To me? It feels like a prison.
As much as I want to defy it, to fight back against the forces closing in around me, I know one thing for certain: I can’t afford to lose.
The room feels smaller by the second, the air thick with fabric swatches and words that aren’t mine. My mother’s animated voice, my sister’s delighted laugh, the designer’s constant stream of questions—it all blends into an oppressive hum. I can’t do this anymore.
I rise abruptly, the motion stiff and graceless. “Excuse me,” I mumble, my voice barely audible over their chatter. No one notices at first, too absorbed in their plans.
“Chloe?” my mother calls after me as I cross the room. “Where are you going?”
“I just need some air,” I reply, not slowing down.
She frowns but doesn’t argue. I think even she can see the tension etched into my face.
Once outside, I inhale deeply, the crisp air hitting my lungs like a splash of cold water. The faint buzz of city life hums in the background—cars passing, distant voices, the occasional blare of a horn. It’s not entirely quiet, but compared to the chaos inside, it feels like peace.
I wrap my arms around myself, leaning against the side of the building. The weight pressing on my chest doesn’t lift, but the fresh air helps keep it from suffocating me entirely.
I barely have a moment to breathe before the door swings open behind me.
“Chloe.”
Of course.
I don’t turn around, staring straight ahead at the street instead. “Mom, please.”
“Don’t please me,” she snaps, her heels clicking against the pavement as she approaches. “What’s going on with you? You’re acting like a child.”
I whip around, the anger I’ve been holding back bubbling to the surface. “I can’t do this!”
She stops in her tracks, startled by the sharpness of my tone.
“I can’t sit in there and pretend this is normal,” I continue, my voice trembling with frustration. “I can’t smile and nod while you all plan my wedding like I’m not even in the room.”
Her expression hardens, her hands settling on her hips. “You think you’re the only one this affects? Do you think this is easy for any of us?”
“I think you’ve all made it perfectly clear that my opinion doesn’t matter,” I fire back. “You’ve decided everything for me. The dress, the wedding, my entire life . I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?”
“You don’t understand what’s at stake here,” she says, her voice tight with warning. “This isn’t just about you, Chloe. This is about our family.”
“Exactly,” I snap. “It’s always about the family, isn’t it? Not me. Not what I want. Just the business, the alliances, the reputation.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “Just leave me alone. Please. I need a minute.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to argue. Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. Then, with a sharp exhale, she turns and heads back inside, muttering something under her breath about me being ungrateful.
I don’t care.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my contacts, my fingers trembling slightly. I stop at Elise’s name and hit call before I can overthink it.
She picks up on the second ring. “Chloe! Hey! What’s up?”
Her voice is so bright and cheerful, it stings. She doesn’t know what’s happening, and for a brief moment, I consider telling her. Just blurting everything out—the engagement, the wedding, Erik. The words catch in my throat.
“Chloe?” she prompts when I don’t answer right away.
I close my eyes, gripping the phone tightly. “Hey, Elise. Sorry, I just….” My voice falters. What am I supposed to say?
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her tone softening with concern.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, forcing a weak smile she can’t see. “I just… I wanted to let you know I can’t make it tonight. For the girls’ night. I’m really sorry.”
There’s a pause on her end. “Oh,” she says finally. “Are you okay? You sound… off.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… something came up. Family stuff.”
She doesn’t sound convinced, but she doesn’t push. “Okay. If you’re sure. We’ll miss you, though. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“I will,” I promise, though I have no intention of following through.
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up, staring down at the phone in my hand. A dull ache blooms in my chest, heavier than before. Elise is one of the few people who makes me feel like I have control over my life, even if it’s just for a little while.
Now, even that feels out of reach.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and lean my head against the cool brick wall behind me. The street blurs slightly as tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away.
I can’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Instead, I take another deep breath, letting the crisp air fill my lungs, and try to steady the storm inside me.