16. Cathy
16
CATHY
T he dressing room is silent, the kind of silence that sinks into your bones and leaves you feeling hollow. It feels like a room preparing for a funeral, not a wedding.
Heavy velvet drapes hang from ceiling-high windows, casting shadows that stretch across dark wood floors polished to an unnatural gleam.
Gold accents glint from the edges of the furniture, intricate and intimidating, the kind of luxury that feels like it was built to display power, not comfort.
I’m perched on the edge of a plush armchair, but even the softness feels oppressive, like it’s sinking me further into the room’s silence. The thick carpets swallow any sound, trapping me in a cocoon of stillness.
I wrap my arms around myself, drawing in a breath that tastes faintly of perfume and polish, the fragrance cloying and ancient, as if it’s seeped into the very walls over decades.
My gaze drifts over the ornate decor, the heavy gold-framed mirrors, the towering wardrobe, all pristine and intimidating. It’s strange to think that all of this belongs to him, that I’m one more possession to add to so many.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel like a doll dressed up and placed in a gilded cage, an outsider in a world that aims to swallow me whole. This mansion, this wealth, the silent reminders of power—it all presses down on me as if the house itself would crush me if I ever lower my guard.
Behind me, a woman is working on my hair. She’s small and efficient, her hands laden with brushes and bottles, moving with a purposeful grace that tells me this is her element. She doesn’t smile or speak.
She twists my hair, her hands deft and skilled, pinning delicate gold accents into each braid, transforming me into someone I hardly recognize. The weight of each pin feels like another piece of armor, another layer I’m forced to wear as I step further into Ivan’s world.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. My hair has become a crown of braids, woven and intricate, glinting with subtle golden highlights that only seem to intensify the strangeness of my reflection.
When she moves on to my makeup, my own face becomes a stranger’s. Her touch is light but methodical, painting my cheeks and lips, defining my eyes until they look darker, more haunted. I look like someone out of a dream—or a nightmare.
My gown waits for me, draped over the back of a chair. It’s an antique white with lace sleeves that cling to my arms, and a cinched waist that feels like a vice. I pull it on slowly, the fabric heavy and exquisite, fitting me like a second skin, each layer wrapping around me, holding me firmly in place.
I stand in front of the mirror, barely able to breathe, each breath reminding me of the choice that isn’t mine anymore. This isn’t a wedding gown; it’s chains, a symbol of everything I’m being drawn into. The mansion around me feels almost alive, watching, the dark opulence folding over me, pulling me further into its shadows.
The heavy door opens, and Nik beckons. “It is time,” he says. His face is impassive, his gaze forward, giving me no hint of comfort or camaraderie. So different to how he looked in the photo with Elena. Did this life swallow him like it plans to swallow me?
The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit by flickering sconces that cast jagged shadows along the walls, each flame guttering as if struggling against the weight of the darkness. My dress whispers along the floor as I move, a soft sound swallowed by the vast silence that presses in from all sides.
The walls rise high on either side, dark wood and stone, the textures blending into a seamless, oppressive weight that makes me feel as if I’m descending into something ancient and consuming. We step into a grand, arched hall filled with stony faced guests, and the sight makes me stop for a fraction of a second.
The hall is draped in layers of black and crimson, thick fabrics that hang from the ceiling and pool onto the floor like rivers of blood and shadow.
Golden chandeliers hang low, casting an eerie, sepia glow over everything, catching on the glinting buttons of suits and the sharp gleam of watchful eyes. Stone columns line the sides, looming and unyielding, giving the hall the feel of a cathedral—a place for worship, yet somehow profane in its somber grandeur.
Rows of men in dark suits turn as I enter, their expressions hard, assessing, their eyes as sharp as the tailored lines of their clothing.
The weight of their stares makes me feel small, exposed, as though I’m not Cathy, a woman with a past and a future, but something Ivan owns, an acquisition he’s parading before them.
My gaze drifts up the aisle, and there he stands, framed by the somber red and black. Ivan, his presence like a force that draws all the shadows toward him, his gaze a dark, unbreakable line that fixes on me, holds me captive even across the distance.
His eyes are unreadable, the planes of his face set in perfect control, yet I feel the power radiating off him like heat, as if he’s silently commanding the room—and me—with nothing but his presence.
I take slow, careful steps forward, my feet moving in time with a heartbeat I can barely hear over the silence. Each step feels like surrender, like I’m crossing some invisible line with every inch I close between us.
The ceremony feels like a descent, as though I’m moving deeper into a fate I never chose, one that waits for me in Ivan’s eyes.
As I reach him, I glimpse the priest, dressed in heavy robes of dark red, his face shadowed by a hood. He begins to speak in Russian, his voice low and ancient, the words echoing through the hall like a chant.
They’re sounds more than words, powerful syllables that seem to cling to the air, thickening it, making it harder to breathe. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I don’t need to; the tone alone tells me that these are vows, a binding of souls, as weighty and immovable as the stone walls that surround us.
Ivan listens, his expression impenetrable, his posture as unyielding as the columns behind him. He’s fully immersed, his focus on the ritual intense, reverent even, as though he’s part of something ancient and sacred.
I feel myself shrinking under the weight of it, aware that I am standing on the edge of a world far older and darker than I could have imagined.
When the priest finally turns to me, I look to Ivan, uncertain. His eyes meet mine, and with a quiet authority, he steps closer, his voice soft but commanding as he instructs me, “Repeat after me.” His voice is low, each word carrying a weight that pulls me in, as if he’s drawing me to him, binding me with more than just words.
I try to form the sounds he speaks, foreign and difficult, each syllable a struggle. Yet under his gaze, I feel a compulsion to continue, to give in, as though there’s no other choice.
I repeat the words, the Russian strange and heavy on my tongue, and with each phrase, a cold shiver crawls up my spine, a sense that these words are more than vows—they are bonds, wrapping around me, pulling me into his world, weaving me into the fabric of his life.
A low murmur cuts through the vows. The sound is soft at first, a whisper from somewhere in the back, barely audible, but it breaks the atmosphere, shattering the sense of reverence in the air.
I glance back, my irritation rising. Two men, seated far enough away that they clearly don’t care about being discreet, exchange hushed words, their voices carrying just enough to be noticed. One becomes louder. An argument, clearly.
I clench my hands, feeling a ripple of unease shift through me, but before I can fully register the interruption, I feel Ivan tense beside me. His gaze sharpens, fixed on the two men with a deadly calm.
With a slight, almost imperceptible nod, Ivan signals to one of his guards, and in an instant, the man moves, crossing the aisle with swift, silent steps. The guard reaches the offender in seconds, hauling him up by the collar, his grip unyielding as he forces the man to his knees. The offender’s companion falls silent, eyes wide, too stunned to even move.
I barely have time to process the swift brutality of the gesture before Ivan strides over, his movements precise, controlled, each step radiating an authority that fills the hall.
The man on his knees looks up, his face paling as Ivan approaches, his fear evident in the way he visibly shrinks back, saying something in Russian. Ivan doesn’t hesitate; with a single, controlled movement, he backhands the man across the face, the sound echoing through the space like a gunshot.
“Insult my wife again,” Ivan growls, his voice low but dripping with menace, “and your blood will pour down my drains.”
A suffocating silence follows, every guest holding their breath, the weight of Ivan’s words hanging heavily in the air. The offender stammers, his voice trembling, barely able to form words as he mumbles a shaky apology, his gaze fixed on the floor, too afraid to meet Ivan’s eyes. Ivan stands over him, waiting, a predator assessing his prey, making sure the man understands his place.
When Ivan finally steps back, his gaze sweeps over the crowd, cutting through the room with a fierce command. “You will respect my wife as you respect me.” His voice is steady, calm, but the threat lingers, unmistakable. No one moves, no one dares breathe, as if his words have frozen them in place.
He turns to me then, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something possessive, almost protective.
He’s marked me in front of everyone, established an unbreakable boundary around me that no one in this room would dare to challenge. His control isn’t just over me; it’s over every person here, each one bound by the fear and respect he commands so effortlessly.
A strange, twisted sense of comfort settles over me, a feeling I can’t quite name. Despite the brutality, the cold dominance he’s shown, I feel something else, a dark security in knowing he would do whatever it takes to protect me.
It’s frightening and comforting all at once, a contradiction that leaves me feeling both claimed and safe.
As he returns to his place beside me, the hall returns to silence, the guests subdued, their eyes lowered in deference. I realize, with a shiver, that Ivan’s power isn’t just something he wields over others—it’s something he’s now extended to me, binding me in a way that feels both inescapable and deeply intimate.
I’m no longer just standing beside him; I am marked as his, protected by the shadow of his dominance, even as a part of me recoils from it.
I glance up at him, his face impassive once again, but in his eyes, I see something darker, something that tells me this isn’t just about control. It’s about possession, about staking his claim, about making sure everyone in this hall knows exactly where I stand—with him.
The ceremony continues, the murmurs from before replaced by an almost oppressive silence as the guests watch, reverent and still. I barely register the priest’s low, rhythmic chanting, my focus entirely on Ivan as he takes my hand.
His grip is steady, firm, his touch warm against the chill of the ring he holds between his fingers. The ring is heavy and marked with a faint letter ‘M’, the gold catching the dim light in a way that makes it seem almost alive, as though it’s more than just a band—it’s a seal, a binding mark.
As Ivan slides it onto my finger, I feel a weight settle over me, a tangible reminder that there’s no turning back. The metal is cold, almost jarring against my skin, and my hand trembles, betraying the rush of emotions churning inside me.
Ivan notices, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, a brief glint of satisfaction crossing his face, as if he’s pleased with this visible surrender.
He lifts my hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine, and as his mouth brushes my knuckles, a shiver runs through me. It’s possessive, that kiss, a silent vow that feels more binding than any spoken word. The warmth of his lips against my skin lingers.
The priest’s voice fills the hall again, resonant and final. I recognize a few words—husband, wife—but the rest is lost in the heavy Russian syllables, words that sound ancient, unyielding.
Ivan’s gaze remains fixed on me, unwavering, and then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans in, brushing his lips against mine.
The kiss is brief, but it’s not gentle. It’s intense, a claim, a promise, something that leaves me breathless, feeling as though a tether has snapped, binding me to him with an invisible thread.
His hand tightens around mine as he pulls back, his expression unreadable, but his gaze says everything—he is staking his claim, marking me in a way that everyone in this hall, every Bratva member watching, will understand.