10. Chapter 9
X iomara
I sit perfectly still, hands folded in my lap, as the makeup artist leans in, dusting a final shimmer over my cheekbones.
The room is bathed in soft, golden light filtering through the tall windows. It catches on the delicate lace of my veil, on the smooth ivory of the silk gown hugging my waist, on the soft glint of the simple pearl earrings dangling just below my ears.
In the reflection of the gilded mirror, I see her — my mother.
Lola Delgado, poised and graceful as always, standing just behind me, her hands gently adjusting the edge of my veil with practiced ease.
There’s a tension in the air, a tightness between us — but beneath it, something warmer. A quiet tenderness.
“You look beautiful, mija,” she murmurs softly, her voice brushing against the back of my neck like a soothing hand. “You look like a queen.”
I swallow, trying to ease the pressure in my chest. She leans closer, eyes soft, a smile touching the corners of her mouth.
“You are not only your father’s princess now,” she adds gently. “You are about to become the queen of your own home.”
My throat tightens.
I meet her gaze in the mirror, forcing a smile that trembles a little too much at the edges.
Inside, my mind is a storm.
The weight of today.
The finality of this choice.
The knowledge that with each breath, each second, I’m moving closer to becoming someone’s wife — to standing beside Zasha Petrov as his partner, his equal, his match.
This isn’t a love story, I remind myself.
Well, not yet.
But I will make it one.
I’ll find a way to break through that steel-lined shell of his, to make him see me — really see me — not just as a political move, not just as a Delgado pawn, but as the woman who’s going to set his whole carefully controlled world on fire.
I take a slow, careful breath, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress.
The silk is cool beneath my palms, soft but strong, hugging every line of my body with elegant simplicity.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves, delicate and understated. A fitted waist, flowing into a small, graceful train. It may not be flashy, but it is certainly unforgettable.
I wanted to look like myself today — not a doll, not a display, not someone else’s idea of perfection. And as I study the reflection in front of me, a quiet spark flickers in my chest.
I am ready.
I adjust the delicate pearl earring, fingers trembling slightly as I fasten the clasp.
Breathe, Mara.
I force a slow inhale, smoothing the soft ivory fabric at my waist, feeling the nervous fluttering in my stomach twist tighter.
In the mirror, I catch my own reflection: sharp hazel eyes, lips painted a muted rose, dark hair swept elegantly back beneath the veil.
I can do this.
The door creaks open behind me. I glance up, expecting to see my mother or Luise.
Instead, it’s Cristóbal. He standing there, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. A knot forms immediately in my throat.
I already know — I already know — where this is going.
“Are you really doing this, Mara?” his voice cuts sharply across the room, sounding cold and accusatory.
I straighten slowly, turning to face him, carefully keeping my expression smooth.
Not today, please, I think desperately.
He takes another step in, dark eyes narrowed.
“So you’re really marrying into the Bratva,” he says, spitting the word like venom. “Zasha barely even knows you.”
His voice drops, thick with frustration.
“You’re making a mistake.”
His words land like tiny daggers, each one pricking just beneath the skin.
I force a small, polite smile, folding my hands calmly in front of me.
“Cristóbal,” I say softly, “this isn’t the time—”
But he cuts me off, moving closer, his voice sharpening.
“I tried to stop this,” he presses. “I could’ve talked to the older members, could’ve pushed them to reject this alliance. You didn’t have to agree to this — you could’ve fought back.”
My jaw tightens. The familiar burn of anger — slow, controlled, and simmering just beneath the surface — begins to rise.
“I’m not helpless, Cristóbal,” I say coolly. “I know what I’m doing.”
But he keeps going, shaking her head in disbelief.
“You should’ve married someone from our world,” he says fiercely. “Someone from our cartel, someone who knows your family, someone who—”
I snap.
“You don’t get to question my choices,” I say sharply, my voice cutting clean through his next words. “I have never liked your girlfriend, but have I ever questioned your choice to be with her?”
Cristóbal freezes, eyes widening slightly.
I take a slow step forward, forcing my shoulders to stay square, my voice to stay level.
“I don’t want to fight. Not today. Not on the most important day of my life.”
Inside, my heart is hammering so loud I can barely hear myself think.
Because the truth is —
Yes, I’m scared. Yes, I’m stepping into something wild and unpredictable and maybe even dangerous. But I made this choice.
Not my father. Not the cartel elders.
Me.
And no one — not even an old friend — gets to make me question it.
I lift my chin slightly, holding his gaze.
“Don’t add stress to an already stressful day.”
For a beat, the room falls into sharp, tense silence.
His mouth opens slightly, as if he’s about to say something more — but I don’t give him the chance.
I turn, gathering the folds of my dress carefully, and walk out of the bridal suite without looking back.
Each step away feels heavy, my pulse still thrumming at the base of my throat, but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Because today, I am not the frightened little girl everyone once tried to control. Today, I walk into the storm I have created on my own terms. I intend to emerge stronger on the other side.
I stand alone in the hallway, my back pressed lightly against the cool wall, fingers twisting nervously in the folds of my dress. My chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.
Breathe, Mara.
I close my eyes for a second, forcing myself to slow everything down.
The anger with Cristóbal, the nerves coiled tight in my stomach, the voices echoing in my head — all of it needs to go quiet.
Because this moment—this walk—is mine.
A soft sound draws my attention. I open my eyes, and there stands my father. His powerful frame fills the corridor, dressed sharply in a dark, tailored suit, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and something more fragile.
When our eyes meet, his mouth pulls into a small, rare smile. A smile that is always reserved for my mother and me.
“Are you ready, hija?” he asks gently, his voice softer than usual, rough around the edges.
For a heartbeat, I can’t speak. The little girl inside me longs to throw herself into his arms, eager to freeze time, even if just for a moment. But the woman standing here — the woman in this gown, with her head held high, understands that she must move forward.
I nod firmly. “I’m ready.”
He steps closer, offering me his arm. I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of him, the years of protection and fierce love that have shaped this moment.
He presses a brief kiss to my temple, murmuring something too low for me to catch — but the warmth in his voice is enough.
I take another deep breath as the double doors swing open, and the music starts to play.
A hush ripples across the room, a collective inhale as the guests rise, turning toward the entrance. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and step forward — one measured step at a time, the soft silk of my dress whispering against the floor.
My heart pounds, not with fear, but with anticipation and determination.
Because in just a few moments, I’ll stand before Zasha Petrov—and no matter what anyone thinks, no matter what doubts linger in the room, I know why I’m here.
I have dreamed of standing beside Zasha as his wife ever since I was seventeen, and now I’m ready to seize my dreams by the horns.
The music swells, but to me, it’s just a faint hum, like waves breaking somewhere far away.
My heart pounds so hard it’s a physical thing — in my throat, in my fingertips, deep in my chest.
This is it.
I take the first step forward, my father steady beside me. And then I see him at the altar.
Tall. Composed. Almost too still.
His suit cuts sharp lines across his broad frame, his hands clasped in front of him, his face carved into something cold and unreadable.
But his eyes —
When they meet mine, something flickers. Just a crack, a glint, like a storm bottled up and waiting. It’s enough to make my breath hitch. I fight to keep my face calm and poised — but inside, all of my hormones rage. But my heart holds steady, and my steps grow steadier and more sure.
The room blurs — the flowers, the whispers, the guests rising from their seats — none of it matters. It’s just the space between us, charged and crackling, like the air before lightning.
I remember the way his mouth had pressed to mine the night we kissed, the way his fingers had tightened slightly, the way his breath had faltered for just a second.
He’s not as untouchable as he pretends to be. There’s something alive under that cold exterior, something raw and fierce.
And I want it.
At the end of the aisle, my father gives my arm a quiet squeeze, his eyes shimmering with unspoken words. Then he lets go, stepping aside.
I stand there alone, facing Zasha, feeling the weight of every promise and every unspoken hope I carry inside me. As I take the final steps toward him, I make a silent vow.
I will turn this into more than just a contract. This is going to be more than a mere transaction. I will make him see me, and I will make him want to stay.
Not for a year. But for good.
Zasha turns, offering me his arm — the movement smooth, controlled. When our hands touch, a spark jumps between us, fast and electric. I glance up. His dark eyes flicker just slightly, but his face remains unreadable, his jaw set in that stoic, carved mask.
The officiant begins, his words blur past, familiar and formal. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart, the rush of thoughts pressing against my ribs.
On the surface, I look steady, but inside, I’m lit up, every nerve stretched tight, every part of me tuned to the man beside me.
The officiant’s voice dips as he speaks Zasha’s name.
“I do,” Zasha says, quiet but firm.
His answer lands hard in my chest, sending a pulse through me.
My turn comes, and I say “I do.”
I keep my voice clear, letting each word fall with quiet conviction. Zasha takes my hand, sliding the ring onto my finger. Cool metal against warm skin. And just like that, it feels like a countdown has begun —
Three hundred and sixty-five days. That’s the time I have to turn this arrangement into something more.
The officiant gives the final pronouncement.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
A hush settles over the room, heavy with expectation. Zasha leans in, his hand brushing lightly against my waist, and our lips meet.
It’s meant to be a formal kiss, a careful display for the guests —
But beneath it, I feel the tension. The unspoken pull, the quiet crackle in the air between us. His mouth lingers just a second longer than necessary. When we pull back, I steady my breath, a faint tremble at the edge of my pulse.
Calm down, Xiomara, your plans to have Zasha are already in motion.