Chapter 4
SIMA
I don’t stop running until I reach my office.
I slam the door shut behind me, twist the lock, and press my back to the wood. My lungs ache and my pulse is still a wild thing hammering in my throat.
It’s not until I see my reflection in the glass of the display case across the room—wide eyes, blotchy cheeks, hair falling loose around my face—that I realize how close I came.
He thought I looked familiar. The Gubarev pakhan thought I looked familiar.
I am so fucking screwed.
I squeeze my eyes shut and drag in a breath. Then another. It doesn’t help; my heart still punches against my ribs like it’s trying to find a way out. My palms are damp, my mouth’s dry, and I feel like I’m just about ready to flee the country.
But he didn’t recognize me.
That’s what I keep telling myself. He looked, yes, and way too closely. But if he knew—if he’d figured out who I really was—I’d already be dead.
Or worse.
I walk to the small window and peek between the blinds, watching for any sign of him. Nothing. No footsteps, no shadows. No Bratva men coming down the hall to drag me out by my hair.
For now, at least, I’m safe.
Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the plan. Worked like a charm for twelve years. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?
I sink into my desk chair and curl my arms around my middle.
My whole body feels wired, like every muscle is waiting for the order to run again.
I try to force myself to think logically.
I’ve gotten this far by staying invisible.
By blending in. I’ve worked weddings for people like him before—just never him.
And if I’m lucky, I’ll never have to again.
Still, the what-ifs won’t stop circling.
What if he recognized my name? What if he remembers me? What if one of his men realized who I really was?
What if they tell my father?
The thought slams into me like a truck. If my father finds out where I am, I’m done. Twelve years of hiding, wasted. Twelve years of clawing my way into something like safety, gone in a blink.
I’ll be passed off like my sister Lara was, forced into a marriage with a man twice her age who smelled like booze and thought women were cattle to be bought.
Lara didn’t even cry when they shipped her off after a wedding that felt more like a funeral. She just packed her things and kissed me goodbye. She said, “You run, Sima. Don’t stop running.”
So I did.
I’ve spent every year since building a life my father wouldn’t recognize. It’s half the reason I went into wedding planning: because it’s the last place he’d ever think to look for me.
One slip, and it’s all hanging by a thread now.
Would he welcome me back? Doubtful. My father doesn’t believe in second chances. He doesn’t believe daughters have value beyond what they can be traded for.
No. If he found me, it wouldn’t be just for a wedding. He’d do everything in his power to make it hurt. My match would make Lara’s grotesque, masochistic husband feel like Brad Pitt in comparison.
I press my fingers to my temples and try to breathe through it.
Focus. Think.
I can’t leave yet. If I walk out now, I raise suspicion. And suspicion gets people asking questions I can’t afford. I just have to hold it together until they’re gone. Until the last of the Gubarevs disappears into their limos and I can pretend this day never happened.
Just a few more hours.
Then I’ll be safe again.
“Sammi?” It’s Jemma. “Not to rain on your imaginary tummy ache, but something’s wrong.”
I drag myself to the door and crack it open just enough to see her face. She looks frazzled—that’s bad. Jemma’s not the type to panic unless the cake is literally on fire.
“The wedding still hasn’t started. We’re twenty minutes past go time,” she says, glancing over her shoulder like the hallway might explode. “And there’s no sign of the bride. None.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s gone. Her family can’t locate her. And her side of the guest list is starting to leave.”
Perfect. Exactly what I need. A runaway bride and a room full of Bratva guests on edge.
I’m half-tempted to shove the clipboard into Jemma’s hands and tell her to run point for the rest of the day. God knows she could do it—she’s handled worse.
But I really don’t want to do that to her. After this, we’re supposed to become an actual, independent team. What does it say if I show her she can’t trust me? That I’m willing to hang my own best friend out to dry?
It’s one thing to take a break when the event’s running smoothly, but it’s another to disappear when the whole shebang’s on the verge of collapse.
I’ll lose all credibility, and I can’t have that. If I let the wedding of the season crash and burn, no one will ever hire me again. I’ll be out of a job, and that’ll be it. Goodbye, Sammi Banks; goodbye, everything.
I sigh, push my hair back, and unlock the door fully. “Okay. Let’s go fix a wedding. Or fake it ‘til the champagne runs dry.”
Jemma gives me a look. “You sure you’re okay? You look, like, super pale.”
“I always look pale.”
“Not like this. You’re basically Casper right now.”
I roll my eyes. “C’mon. The sooner we get a handle on this, the better.”
And the sooner I can go back to hiding from Petyr Gubarev.
But as I step into the hallway, I can’t shake the weight in my chest. Like I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
With Jemma by my side, I hover just outside the chapel doors, trying to find someone, anyone, who can tell me what the hell is happening.
A bridesmaid, a relative, the prosecco-addled mom from before—I really don’t care.
So long as they can tell me where the hell the bride is and whether the ceremony is actually going to happen.
But before I can open my mouth to ask, I hear him.
Petyr.
He’s standing at the altar, tapping the mic and clearing his throat.
No longer in his underwear, might I add.
His three-piece suit looks spectacular on those abs, all glorious midnight black over a blinding white shirt.
He’s polished to a shine, from the gel taming his dark curls to the gleam of his suit shoes.
“Apologies for the delay,” he says, voice even and calm. “We’ve had a minor change in the program. But don’t worry—the wedding is still happening.”
I nearly slump with relief. Thank the fucking stars. Looks like my credibility is safe after all.
I’m not so sure about my dignity, but on a rollercoaster of a day like this, I’m willing to compromise.
“This is a celebration, after all,” he continues. “So let’s welcome the bride to the altar.”
I glance around for a puffy white dress, but find none.
Oh, well. It’s the twenty-first century. Maybe she’s wearing colors. A power pantsuit, perhaps?
I’m about to whisper a question in Jemma’s ear, when Petyr speaks again.
“Ms. Samantha Banks,” he says, turning my blood to ice, “would you please join me up front?”
The world tilts sideways.
Jemma grabs my arm. “Holy shit. He means you.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My ears are ringing, my knees feel like jelly, and did I mention I’m freaking the fuck out?
What the hell is happening?
Just what in the everlasting hell is happening right now?
I wait for Petyr to acknowledge his mistake, but he doesn’t. Instead, his golden gaze remains fixed on mine.
And the entire chapel turns to stare at me.