Chapter 6 Victoria
VICTORIA
The makeup artist's brush whispers across my cheekbone, feather-light and precise.
Through the window of the preparation room, Lake Michigan spreads like hammered silver beneath golden hour light.
The Adler Planetarium sits on its peninsula like a temple to the sky, and I'm getting ready to marry a stranger inside a building dedicated to studying distant, unreachable things.
"Are you nervous?" The makeup artist's voice breaks through my thoughts, bright with the particular optimism of someone who still believes weddings are about love.
"A little," I lie.
I'm not nervous. I'm numb. There's a difference.
She applies another layer of highlighter, tilting my face toward the light streaming through the glass. "It's so quiet in here. Usually the bride's suite is buzzing with people. Friends. Family." She pauses, then asks with careful brightness, "Where's your mother?"
The question cuts swift and clean.
"Dead."
The brush stills against my skin. Horror and embarrassment flood her face in equal measure. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's fine. I was five." I keep my voice level, controlled, giving her nothing to work with.
The lie of time healing wounds sits bitter on my tongue. Some losses don't get smaller with distance. They just get quieter. Learn to whisper instead of scream.
"Would you like some champagne?" She gestures desperately toward the bottle chilling in the corner, trying to recover from her misstep. "To settle your nerves?"
"I don't drink alcohol."
"Oh." Her smile wavers. "That's... that's actually really healthy."
She finishes the last touches in silence, and I'm grateful for it.
The room smells like roses and hairspray, expensive products meant to transform women into brides.
Outside, gulls cry over the water. Somewhere in the building, a string quartet rehearses, notes drifting through walls and glass like ghosts of music.
The past three weeks blur together in my memory. Wedding planning compressed into an impossible timeline. I'd managed exactly two phone calls with Maksim, fully intending to weaponize every detail, to be the demanding, insufferable bride he'd regret buying.
Instead, a wedding planner appeared at my door the next morning, efficient, professional, carrying a black card and instructions that money was no object. Maksim had informed me to choose whatever I wanted. Whatever made me happy.
As if happiness were something that could be purchased alongside floral arrangements and a four-tier cake.
So here I am. The Adler Planetarium. One hundred and twenty of Chicago's most influential elite waiting beyond these walls. About to commit one year of my life to a transaction dressed as a marriage.
"All done." The makeup artist steps back, admiring her work. "You look beautiful. Absolutely stunning."
I study my reflection in the mirror. She's right. I do look beautiful. Flawless skin, smoky eyes, lips painted a shade between nude and rose that somehow suggests innocence.
A perfect bride.
A perfect lie.
"I'll leave you alone to finish getting ready," she says, gathering her supplies with practiced efficiency. "Your father should be here soon to walk you down the aisle."
The words lodge under my ribs like a shard of glass, but I just nod. Smile. "Thank you. You did an excellent job."
She beams, pleased, and slips out the door.
Silence settles over the room like snowfall.
I rise from the chair and move to the full-length mirror where my wedding dress waits on its hanger.
The gown is everything a wedding dress should be.
Ivory silk that catches light like water, a fitted bodice that flows into a skirt with just enough volume to be romantic without drowning me.
Delicate lace at the neckline and sleeves. Simple. Elegant. Perfect.
I know this isn't real. I know this is a business arrangement dressed in tulle and promises neither of us intends to keep.
But I got myself a dress like I would have if it were real.
A little bit of fairy tale in the dark dream. That's allowed, isn't it?
I slip into the gown, the silk cool and heavy against my skin. The zipper glides up my back with a whisper of sound. When I turn to face the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks untouchable. Ethereal. Like someone who's never been violated, never been abandoned, never learned that safety is an illusion sold by people who profit from the lie.
The makeup artist's words echo in my head. Your father should be here soon.
Father made it abundantly clear this morning, over breakfast he bothered to attend for once, that he'd be here to "give me away." Fulfilling his paternal duty. Playing the role of devoted father one last time before washing his hands of me completely.
As if he didn't give me away years before that, the night he ignored my tears and told me I was being dramatic.
I guess this will be the first time Maksim disappoints me.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
I smooth my hands over the silk, take a breath, and open it.
Alexei Zverev stands in the hallway.
We both freeze.
He's in a dark suit that fits him like a threat.
Charcoal wool, perfectly tailored, the kind of thing that makes dangerous men look civilized while remaining utterly untamed beneath.
His light brown hair is styled back from his face, and those green eyes are bright with something that looks like mischief and awe tangled together.
The small scar through his left eyebrow catches the light.
He's devastatingly handsome.
And he's looking at me like I just punched the air from his lungs.
"Yebat," he says finally, the Russian curse soft and reverent.
Heat climbs my neck, floods my face. I cross my arms, instinctive armor against whatever this moment is becoming. "What are you doing here?"
His grin returns, sharp and wild and utterly unrepentant.
"No bridesmaids to flirt with, so I came to see you instead.
" He leans against the doorframe with easy confidence, studying me with focus that makes my pulse kick.
"Speaking of which, who did you celebrate with at your bachelorette party if there are no bridesmaids? "
"As you know perfectly well, this isn't a real marriage." I keep my voice cool, detached, the performance I've perfected. "I'm saving the bridesmaids for the real deal. There was no bachelorette party."
The lie comes easily. The truth is harder: I've isolated myself so completely that I don't have friends I could ask. And the people I do consider friends are better off not attending a wedding that binds me to the Severyn Bratva.
"No party?" Alexei shakes his head, genuinely disappointed. "You'll get along great with Maksim, then. He's a bore who didn't want a bachelor party either."
Warmth blooms in my chest. Unwelcome, inappropriate, dangerous. Maksim didn't celebrate. Didn't want to. I can't examine why that pleases me, so I push it down and focus on Alexei instead.
"What are you really doing here?" I ask again.
His expression shifts. The wild humor fades into something more serious, more honest. "Your father had an unfortunate accident this morning. Playing golf. " He pauses, lets that sink in. "He's wearing a brace now. Won't be able to walk you down the aisle." He winks. Actually winks.
The pieces click into place.
They did this. They made sure my father couldn't give me away because I asked not to be given away by him.
Someone listened. Someone cared enough to act.
I don't know what to do with that information. Don't know how to process being heard, being believed, being protected.
Alexei's voice gentles, loses its sharp edge. "I know you can walk down that aisle by yourself, kotyonok. " He extends his arm, offering. "But nothing would give me greater honor than to lead you to my brother. Your choice."
I stare at his offered arm. At this wild, dangerous man looking at me with something that feels dangerously close to genuine affection.
The truth is, I think I could use Alexei's support. I think walking alone might crack something inside me I'm not ready to examine.
"I accept," I say finally, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow.
His grin returns, brilliant and boyish. "Let's go get you married, solnyshko."
The string quartet launches into the processional as we step into the hallway.
My pulse accelerates, adrenaline flooding my system.
Alexei keeps up a steady stream of whispered commentary as we walk.
Observations about the flowers ("excessive"), jokes about the venue ("pretentious"), anything to distract me from the weight of what I'm about to do.
"Third row, left side," he murmurs as we approach the ceremony space. "Senator Anderson. Heard he's been laundering money through his wife's art gallery. We should compare notes."
I nearly laugh despite myself.
He keeps going, pointing out politicians, business owners, society matrons, weaving a narrative of Chicago's elite that's equal parts amusing and accurate.
I'm grateful for it. Grateful for him.
The ceremony space opens before us, and the air leaves my lungs.
The Adler Planetarium's grand hall has been transformed into something out of a dream.
The domed ceiling arcs overhead, massive and impossible, glass panels refracting golden light into fragments that dance across white marble floors.
The space echoes with barely contained sound of fabric rustling, people breathing, the string quartet playing something achingly beautiful.
Chairs arranged in neat rows face an altar backed by floor-to-ceiling windows that frame Lake Michigan stretching to the horizon.
White roses and greenery line the aisle, and everywhere I look, there's light golden, warm, making everything feel suspended between reality and fantasy.
One hundred and twenty faces turn to watch me enter.
The weight of their attention presses against my skin like hands.