Chapter 5 Sima
SIMA
My legs stop working.
My brain, too. It’s like having a head full of mush. Not to mention whatever’s happening to my lungs, because this? It definitely cannot be classified as breathing.
I must have misunderstood. That’s the only possibility. Because there’s no way I heard him right, is there?
No way he wants me to be his—
Bride. He wants you to be his bride.
We spoke for two minutes. Barely. And even then, I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. Why would he call me up to the altar? Why would he want to marry me?
Why is he doing this to me?
I start to retreat, planning to duck back out the chapel doors and make a run for it, when a hand closes around my elbow.
“Come, dear,” a man says gently.
I look up—way up—into the weathered, craggy face of one of Petyr’s guests.
Older, sharply dressed, with steel-gray hair and a scar that pulls one side of his mouth down.
He reminds me of a theatre mask, those half-smiling, half-crying ones, because while the right corner of his lips twitches in sympathy, the left is hopelessly weighed down by that old, faded gash.
I recognize him on sight.
Ivan Gubarev. Petyr’s uncle. The younger brother of the late pakhan, with a prime spot in the line of succession, second only to Petyr and his comatose older brother. A man who owes the loss of nearly his whole family to mine.
Oh, God.
I am so dead.
Slowly, I let this man pry me away from the spot I’m rooted to. His grip is firm, not unkind, but it’s clear I’m not getting out of this without a scene.
And right now, I’m not sure I want to risk making one.
I take a trembling step. Then another. With every step after that, the room spins a little harder.
Ivan walks with me, his stride unhurried but confident.
He’s guiding me down the aisle like this is the most natural thing in the world, like I’m not a complete stranger being escorted into a Bratva marriage I never agreed to.
If it weren’t for his hand on my arm, I’m not sure I’d make it to the front at all.
I’ve been through some shit the past twelve years on the run. Homelessness, hunger, fifty shades of loss and despair. And yet I have never been sadder than on Lara’s wedding day.
I suspect the same was true for her. At least, it was at that time. By now, she’s bound to have racked up countless worse memories, but if I start thinking about that now, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
I remember helping her get ready. How pale she looked. Paler even than her princess-y white dress. Her makeup was flawless, but somehow, it still hadn’t been able to hide the sadness around her eyes.
My father’s grip on her arm had left angry red marks all the way from her elbow to her wrist. Still, she didn’t fight him. She didn’t say a word. Just walked silently down that aisle like she was headed to her execution.
I was twelve. Too young to understand everything, but old enough to recognize the look of pure misery on my sister’s face.
Old enough to know what kind of monster was waiting at the end of that aisle, too.
His smile was too wide, his gaze too hungry.
I’d seen that look before, from street men who didn’t care that I was a child.
Or from my father’s business associates whose hands always lingered on my waist a little too long.
And from my brothers, too.
As I watched Lara walk toward that man, I promised myself I would never let it happen to me. I would never be passed off like property. Never be sold off for power.
Well, here I am.
My fingers curl into the fabric of my slacks. Could Petyr have figured it out? Could this be some twisted game? Some sick form of punishment?
No. My fears are mine alone. I never shared them with anyone, and as powerful as Petyr Gubarev is rumored to be, even he can’t possibly read minds.
Besides, he’d just kill me if he knew. Quietly, efficiently. A bullet in the head or a blade between the ribs. That’s how it would go.
He wouldn’t marry me.
Unless…
No. I push the thought away.
Petyr watches me from the altar, his gaze fixed and unreadable, though the slight smirk tugging at his mouth makes my stomach twist. He looks amused. Confident. Like he’s already won something, and now, he’s just watching to see how long it takes me to catch up.
For a second, I seriously consider yanking free of Ivan’s grip and bolting. Running full speed in the opposite direction, even if it means barreling straight through the flower arrangements and angering a few more koi in the process.
But Petyr’s men are stationed near every exit. Discreet, yet obvious. Pure Bratva muscle. I’d never get far.
My own powerlessness clogs my throat. I hate this. Hate being in this situation. Carried down the aisle like a lamb to the slaughter, trapped despite myself. It just makes me want to scream.
But screaming wouldn’t be a good idea. The last thing I need right now is to draw even more attention to myself. All it takes is one person recognizing me, one person remembering the girl who vanished twelve years ago.
So I do the only thing I can.
I keep walking.
Maybe if I go along with it, get it over with as quickly and quietly as possible, I can find a way out later. I clutch that slim hope with all I’ve got. I’ll disappear again. Start over. Just like before.
He called me Samantha Banks. The name from my fake ID. How legal can this marriage even be?
I catch Jemma in the crowd. She’s standing near the back, wide-eyed with horror. She must have figured out from the look on my face how badly I do not want this.
Her lips move around a single word: Police?
I shake my head sharply. Absolutely not. That would make everything worse. The only thing more dangerous than being trapped in a Bratva wedding is dragging law enforcement into it.
They’d never make it out alive. Neither would I.
If we want to survive this, we’ll have to play nice. All of us.
No matter how excruciating it will be.
“You’re shaking,” Petyr murmurs when we approach the altar. He leans in just enough so no one else can hear. “Cold feet, or you’re just that excited to see me?”
I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the pastor, on the polished marble beneath our feet—anywhere but that smug face.
“You’re insane,” I hiss back, lips barely moving. “You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, I know enough.”
I clench my jaw and fight the urge to punch him. It wouldn’t help my situation, but it sure would be damn satisfying. I’d go down swinging—literally.
As the pastor starts speaking, I glance around myself. Searching, desperately, for a hint of a glimpse of a way out.
But there’s none. Not right now, not with these many witnesses.
I’m an expert at running. I know better than anyone that timing is everything. And this? It’s the worst timing of all.
So I take a breath, calm myself, and do what my sister did.
I marry a stranger.
There’s no white dress. No flowers. No friends or family standing beside me, aside from a horrified Jemma in the corner.
Just a pantsuit, a plastic nametag, and a chapel full of strangers who would kill me if they knew who I was.
Every little girl’s dream, really.