Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Harper
I glanced down at the wedding dress clinging to my body.
It was some high-end designer's couture piece, with a massive skirt spilling over half the steps. To squeeze into this gown that was never meant for me, Olga's tailor had nearly snapped my ribs last night. Now, even breathing felt like a gamble—one wrong gasp, and I'd pass out.
Beside me stood a distant uncle of Kirill's, Peter Orlov, with his graying hair and ruddy nose. Today, he was filling in for my dad, who'd bolted to the other side of the world after hearing about Aiden's illness.
The doors creaked open wide, and the organ blasted out its thunderous tune.
We stepped inside.
The church hit me like a punch—vaulted ceilings soaring high, massive stained-glass windows flooding the place with color, air thick with candle wax and old wood.
It gave me a spark of hope. Ever since I started watching rom-coms, I'd daydreamed about a wedding like this. I should be thrilled, right?
Pews on both sides brimmed with people, a sea of suits and dresses.
Olga had pulled out all the stops for a month, packing the place with New York's power players. Politicians, tycoons, and mafia families running the shadows.
My palms were slick with sweat. I'd never been one for crowds, especially not with those venomous whispers slithering into my ears.
In this echoey hall, every word carried crystal clear.
"That's her?" A woman's voice hissed from the left. "God, look at that waist. The dress is about to burst!"
"Kirill must've lost his mind," a guy chuckled back. "Picking some backwoods caregiver."
"Maybe she's got tricks in the sack."
"What a waste of those Jimmy Choo heels."
My cheeks burned, shame scorching through me like wildfire. I wanted to hunch over, disappear into a crack in the floor.
But I couldn't. I bit my lip hard and stared down the red carpet.
Kirill Orlov waited at the altar.
He rocked a tailored black tux, tie knotted perfectly, hair slicked back, face all sharp edges. Sunlight streamed through the windows, haloing him like some saint.
He turned, locking eyes with me through the crowd. For a second, the hate vanished.
This scene had haunted my dreams forever—that untouchable man in the light, waiting. Right now, it felt so real, I almost forgot the cold deal behind it.
I was marrying him. A month ago, it was just a wild fantasy.
I walked toward him, step by step, until Peter handed me off.
Kirill looked down, his gaze sweeping my face.
"You look decent," he murmured.
His voice tingled in my ear, and I blushed hard. At least he hadn't shamed me in front of everyone.
The priest kicked off the vows.
Words about love and loyalty echoed through the packed church. Bitterness twisted in my gut—every line mocked what we really had.
This was a transaction. Just business, no heart.
"Mr. Kirill Orlov," the priest said, closing his Bible. "Do you take Miss Harper Evans to be your wife? In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, to love and cherish until death do you part?"
Kirill's eyes dropped to the floor. Silence stretched.
The whispers died. Every stare stabbed my back like pins.
Why wasn't he saying it?
My heart hammered, panic flooding me like ice water.
Was he backing out? Right here, in front of everyone, realizing how ridiculous this was?
My hands sweated again.
Please, Kirill, don't.
I stared at him, begging with my eyes.
Don't make me a joke. Even if it's fake, for Olga's sake, say something.
I squeezed his hand, nails digging in.
He turned.
His gaze hit my face, catching the tears brimming, my lips quivering.
His brow twitched—the first real emotion all day.
"I do."
The words finally came. My knees buckled, nearly dropping me.
The rest blurred. Holding back heartbreak was all I could manage. I'd known my groom didn't love me, but his hesitation still gutted me.
Even in a deal, it hurt like hell.
"You may kiss the bride."
Kiss me? He'd probably just peck and pull away in disgust.
I thought bitterly, fighting tears.
His hand clamped my neck. Before I could react, his mouth crashed down.
His tongue forced my lips apart, diving in, claiming everything. It tangled with mine, fierce, like he wanted to steal my breath. Whistles and cheers erupted, but I tuned them out.
My first kiss, nothing like I'd imagined. I felt like I was drowning, fingers clutching his jacket, world spinning.
He pulled back when I gasped for air.
"Breathe," he whispered in my ear, mocking. "You're suffocating yourself."
I gulped air, face on fire.
It was over.
We walked out to applause and cheers, those same mockers now flashing fake smiles.
A black stretch Lincoln idled at the steps. Boris yanked the door open.
Kirill slid in first. I wrestled my heavy skirt inside. The door slammed, shutting out the noise.
I fussed with the folds, sneaking glances at him. He grabbed a tablet from the side, yanked off his tie, tossed it, and lit the screen.
Blue glow lit his stony profile.
"Mr. Orlov," I tried.
I wanted to ask where we were headed.
"Quiet." He didn't look up, fingers flying. "I'm checking quarterlies. This damn wedding backed up everything."
Irritation dripped from his voice.
I shut up, swallowing my words.
He didn't want this. Tolerating me was a chore. I was a hassle, a duty, a box checked for Olga.
The sooner I accepted I meant nothing to him, the better.
No tears, Harper. This was no big deal.
The car rolled up to Orlov Manor.
A hulking Gothic pile, black spires stabbing the sky, radiating grim authority.
It stopped. Kirill chucked the tablet to Boris and stormed inside, leaving me behind.
Alfred, the butler, led my flustered ass into the hall.
"Madam, this way."
He took me to the second-floor master suite. Massive space. I stood in the middle, watching him go, clueless.
The bathroom door swung open.
A girl in a maid's gear stepped out.
Young, maybe early twenties. Round face with baby fat, faint freckles.
She hurried over and curtsied.
"Hello, madam." Anna's voice chimed, full of youthful spark. "I'm Anna. Anna Petrova. From today, I'm your personal maid. I'll handle your daily needs."
Relief hit me. At least someone here seemed human.
"Hi, Anna." I forced a friendly smile. "Just call me Harper."
She grinned sweetly and pointed to the bathroom. "Bath's ready, madam. Madam Olga said the bride must wash off all dust before bed. Orlov tradition."
I nodded. "Thanks. I need out of this dress first."
It was strangling me.
"Of course, I'll help." She undid the back.
When the heavy fabric dropped, I exhaled long.
I stepped into the bathroom. After the chaos, the luxury barely registered.
I was beat. Soaked for an hour until the heat eased my aches.
Toweled off, I came out wrapped up, but my old clothes were gone from the rack.
"Anna?" I called. "Where's my stuff?"
She scampered in, holding a tray lined with red velvet.
"Oh, those old things?" She chirped. "Butler took them. Said they've served their purpose. Not fitting for your new status."
"What?" My eyes widened. "They threw them out? What do I wear?"
"Don't worry. Madam Olga prepared your battle gear." Anna bit her lip, stifling a grin, and presented the tray like a crown. "Tonight, this is it."
I looked down.
Blood rushed to my face.
That wasn't clothes.
Black straps linked palm-sized lace scraps. Barely there, see-through. Skimpier than red-light window displays.
"You kidding?" I clutched the towel, staring at Anna.
She giggled but shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, madam. Can't defy Madam Olga."
That sly old fox.
"Any coat? Even a raincoat?" I begged.
Anna spread her hands. "Nothing, madam."
I slumped.
It's not like I had a choice. I couldn't stay in this damp towel, right? Risk it dropping? Or go naked?
That would be worse.
Kirill said he had work. Maybe he wouldn't come back. Maybe crash in the study or guest room. He hated me that much.
The thought gave slim hope.
Slip this on, burrow under covers, lights out, fake sleep. No one sees. Tomorrow, I'll scrounge clothes.
Shaking, I grabbed the feather-light lace.
"Got it. You can go."
Anna set the tray, winked slyly, and bounced out. Probably to report to Olga.
Now, I was alone with the black tangle.
I closed my eyes and dropped the towel.