Chapter 4
ALEXEI
Five days ago, she signed her name on a contract to marry me. Today, I wait for her at the altar of a small chapel that sits at the end of a small lake a few minutes outside the city.
It’s a pretty building with pale stone decor, ornate wooden doors, and windows overlooking the water where ducks paddle around, quacking like they’re telling each other dirty jokes.
It’s the kind of place where real weddings take place, between people in love.
People who invite friends and family to fill up the pews and witness their joyous union.
Today, though, the chapel is almost empty. No bouquets, no cousin with a camera, no drunk bridesmaids, no speeches. Just Danyl and Liza as our witnesses.
I texted my wife-to-be, asking if she wanted a friend to be her bridesmaid.
We need authenticity for the pictures, in case we get interviewed by immigration.
But Rose sent back a short “no” and so Danyl asked Liza to come.
And we can spin that into our story, make Liza and Rose into friends from a while back, and that’s how we met. Liza introduced us.
She’ll end up getting to know Liza eventually, anyway. Bratva wives socialize mostly among themselves. There are too many secrets in our lives that they can’t tell others.
I adjust the cuff of my tuxedo and take a deep breath. The air is coo. The ducks are loud, and the chaplain keeps muttering to himself as he checks his phone.
The door at the back of the chapel opens, and the opening piano notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D play through the speakers. I turn just as a cello joins the piano.
Rose walks in on the arm of her father.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
She’s in a white simple gown. The strapless top hugs her curves tightly, but from the waist down, the dress flows in straight, soft folds down to her feet.
Her raven-black hair is down, a little messy, like she didn’t fight it too hard, and she’s wearing a crown of white and red roses.
Her makeup is spare, just enough to soften the shadows under her gorgeous sky-blue eyes.
My bride is breathtakingly beautiful.
Her father walks beside her, stiff, trying to carry himself like a proud parent instead of a guilty man. His tie is askew. The miserable bastard couldn’t even get that one little detail right. Danyl paid for the clothes Drew’s wearing. All he had to do today was dress himself and show up.
I make a note to straighten his tie before the pictures.
I can’t give Rose the perfect wedding, but I can give her perfect wedding pictures. The illusion of the happy beginning of this marriage.
She’s tired.
I can see that from the way she walks. The slight drag in her step, the way her shoulders roll forward. She’s trying to hold her spine straight, but her body is begging to fold.
She’s scared, too. Her gaze bounces all over the place. She keeps glancing at me, then away, like I might lunge.
I straighten up as she gets closer.
She stops at the end of the aisle, and her father squeezes her shoulder. He says something I don’t hear, then takes the front pew on the other side from Danyl and Liza.
I walk to the foot of the altar. She flinches when I get close, barely, but it’s there. Her fingers tighten around the bouquet that matches her crown and she swallows loudly.
“Rose,” I say, holding out my hand.
She takes it, her fingers trembling. “Alexei,” she answers, and her voice is small, but not broken.
I help her up the two steps to the altar. “You look beautiful.”
Her eyes widen in surprise.
The chaplain clears his throat, and we both turn to him. He’s an older man, kind -faced, but apparently on a schedule.
We go through the traditional questions and vows. I slide both a diamond solitaire ring and a wedding band onto her finger. They look heavy on her hand, the metal and the jewel catching the light streaming through the windows.
When it’s her turn, Rose’s fingers shake as she takes my hand. Her touch burns through my skin and straight into my chest. For a second, she hesitates, eyes on my face, but then she slips the band on, and it’s done.
I’m a married man.
I’m supposed to feel like a king, with a beautiful woman on my arm and a life that will soon include a solid immigration status. Instead, I feel like I’ve just taken something that wasn’t mine and forced it into my pocket.
“And we’re done,” the chaplain says, too brightly, like we’ve just shared a triumph. “You are now husband and wife.” He beams at us both and then turns to me. “You may kiss your bride.”
Rose stiffens.
Her eyes are wet, but she’s not crying. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, like she’s tasted something bitter but refuses to spit it out.
I bend my head, ever so slightly, and press my mouth to her lips in a chaste kiss.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.
The chaplain says something else, but I’m not paying attention. My focus is no my wife, trying to figure out how to help her not cry sad tears on her wedding day.
I look up and find Danyl’s gaze on me, assessing.
Liza’s on Rose, softer and worried.
Drew’s tapping his foot, like he’s got somewhere else to be.
I pull my wife’s hand into the crook of my arm, and we walk back down the aisle. She’s shaking the whole time.
Outside the chapel, the wedding photographer meets us and runs us through poses. I straighten Drew’s tie, clinching it tighter than necessary before we take the pictures with the four of us as the wedding party.
We’re not having a reception. The story we’ll tell immigration is that we wanted to save our money for the honeymoon and opted for a small dinner instead. We’ll do those pictures at a later date with Liza and Danyl, wearing the same clothes as today.
Instead, a town car picks us up to take us back to my place.
The driver holds the door for Rosie and I help her get in.
She’s careful with the dress and grips my hand for support as she folds the material around her and slips into the backseat.
Her trusting me with this small chore warms something deep inside my chest.
Inside, the car smells of leather, disinfectant, and faintly of the peppermint gum the driver chews.
The engine hums to life, and we sit in silence as the car rolls down the chapel’s driveway and onto the road that will take us back into the city.
Rose shifts in her seat.
I look at her hand. She keeps curling her fingers around the ring, like it’s too heavy and will slip off.
“You will not lose it,” I mumble. I made sure I got her correct size before getting the rings.
She snorts, but it’s half sigh. “I’m just… not used to this.”
“Not used to being married?” I ask.
“Not used to being… owned,” she says, and the word hangs between us.
I turn to look out the window to hide my…anger? Disappointment? “You’re not owned,” I say. “You’re protected.”
“By who?” she asks, and there’s a heat in her voice I haven’t heard since the contract signing. “By you? By your cousin? If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have to be protected in the first place.”
I exhale slowly. “We didn’t create this situation. Your father did.” The way her head hangs at those words makes me wish I could take them back.
“But you didn’t have to take advantage of it,” she mutters, but then she covers her mouth with her hand, eyes wide as they stare at me. She fears my reply, and my chest aches.
I grab her hand and move it away from her face. “I will not hurt you because you mouthed back at me,” I say.
She glances up at me, surprised, and then looks away.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She snorts again, but this time there’s less defiance and more exhaustion. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck. Like I just…,” she trails off.
“Like you just signed away your life,” I finish.
She’s silent for a second, then nods, so small it’s almost imperceptible.
“I didn’t…” she starts, then stops.
“What?” I prompt.
She turns her hand, looks at the rings again, the way they sit on her finger, the way they catch the light. “I didn’t think I’d be… married to someone like you. I didn’t think I’d be married at all. My plan was to go to college.”
I know about her college acceptance. Danyl had her online accounts and email hacked during his vetting process. I know she wants to go to law school. “You can still go to college. Probably not this semester. But someday.”
“You don’t get to promise me that,” she says, but her voice wavers. “You don’t get to sit here and tell me you’ll ‘fix it’ when you’re the one who bought me.”
I flinch because she’s right.
“I didn’t buy you,” I breathe. “I agreed to a deal, just like you. You negotiated for the best deal you could, and I accepted even though Danyl was against it.”
She leans her head back, like she’s too tired to hold it up. “Am I supposed to thank you for your kindness?” There’s a sneer in her voice.
“I’m not kind,” I say. “I’m just stating facts. I saw you stand up to Danyl and me even though you were shaking. You said no, negotiated a better deal out of a shitty contract, and then said yes, because you understood you had to. I’m proud of you for that.”
She blinks. “You’re… proud of me?”
“Yes,” I say. “You handled that better than most people would. Better than I would, maybe, if someone held my family over my head and called it a contract.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Outside, the city flicks past, buildings blurring into each other. The car turns onto a wider street. The skyline sharpening.
“I hate this,” she says finally. “I hate I did this. I hate that I’m married to you. I hate that—” She stops, chest hitching. “I don’t even hate you, that’s the worst part. I don’t hate you. I just hate what you are. And what I’ve become because of you.”
The words are sharp, but they’re honest. I take them.
“You’re not a different person,” I say. “You’re still Rose Morgan. You’re still the girl who works too hard, and cares too much about her father even when he doesn’t deserve it. That doesn’t change.”
She huffs a breath, half -laugh, half -sob. “He doesn’t deserve it,” she says, and there’s a crack in her voice. “He doesn’t. He’s weak. He’s selfish. He’s—”
“He’s your father,” I say. “But he’s no longer allowed to ruin your life.”
She looks at me, eyes wide. “You’re going to tell me you’re going to protect me from him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
She frowns. “And what if I don’t agree with that?”
“Non-negotiable,” I say. “I will not hurt him, but he’s no longer allowed to jeopardize your safety.”
“And if he doesn’t want that?” she asks.
“He doesn’t get a choice,” I say. “It’s time for him to be the adult in your relationship.”
She’s silent for a long time. The car turns again. The road is familiar now. My penthouse is close.
“You’re going to protect me from him,” she says, like she’s testing the words. “Who else and what else will you protect me from?”
“Everybody, everything,” I say. “That’s my job as your husband.”
Her eyes are wet again, but she’s not crying. She’s staring at the rings on her hand, like they and I are trying to drag her into a future she doesn’t want.
“And what about me?” she asks quietly. “If I do something that hurts you?”
I think about that for a while. She made threats of going to the police and of making my life hell when we signed the contract, but she can’t make good on those without also incriminating her father.
And now that she’s my wife, she’d also incriminate herself.
Instead, I remember her sharp tongue, her stubbornness, her refusal to be broken.
Of the way she stood up to Danyl, the way she looked at me when she said she’d walk away if I forced her to have a baby.
“You talk as if this marriage is a contract between adversaries,” I say. “That’s not what this is.”
“What is it, then?” She asks, and her voice is small.
“A promise,” I say. “A promise between two people who don’t have a choice. I’m promising you I won’t be the worst thing in your life. I’m promising you I’ll protect you. I’m promising you that if anyone comes after you, they have to go through me first. That’s the deal.”
She’s silent for a long time.
“Thank you,” she finally whispers.
We pull up to my building, and I open my door and jog around to help her again as the driver holds hers open.
She holds up the material of her dress with her right hand. Her shoulders slump, and her exhaustion paints hollows under her eyes.
“Can you carry them?” I ask quietly, nodding to her left hand and the rings when she looks up at me with a question in her eyes.
She laughs, a small, tired sound. “I don’t think so. It’s… too much.”
I take her hand. “I’ll help,” I say. Pretending I don’t love the way her hands fit perfectly in mine and that the rings mark her as mine.
“Thank you,” she says with a small, but real, laugh.
We walk into the building holding hands. The doorman, who’s armed and part of my security details congratulates us. Rose gives him a tired smile.
The elevator takes us straight into my penthouse apartment, and as we step inside, the setting sun paints the sky a bruised purple.
I keep her hand in mine as we walk through the open plan living room and kitchen area. “This is your home now,” I say. “If you want to redecorate, let me know.”
She looks around, eyes wide, and then we reach the open door of the main bedroom suite. An Alaskan king-sized bed dominates the room. Its pristine white sheets, down comforter, and fluffy pillows provide a stark contrast to the light, sand-colored walls.
“I’ll take the guest bedroom,” I say before she can ask.
“This is yours. I will not force you to share a bed with me. I don’t want to be the reason you’re afraid to sleep.
” While we were at the chapel, my men moved her clothes to this room and her toiletries are in the ensuite.
Except for the furniture left in her old apartment, her other stuff is in boxes in my office for her to sort through and place wherever she wants them later.
She looks at me, eyes wide, then nods slowly, like she’s testing the weight of the words.
“Thank you,” she says, and I hate how small her voice sounds.
She steps into the bedroom and closes the door behind her.
I stand there for several moments, waiting, but she never engages the lock.
It’s a small sign of trust, but I’ll take it.