Chapter 20 – Artur
She hated the idea of being married to me, of bearing the name Tarasov. She claimed it came with a lot of pain and dangerous enemies. She didn’t appreciate the fact that our unborn child would be raised in my violent world.
But there was nothing she could do about it because I’d made my decision. I was going to marry her, and she was going to raise that child under my care and protection. Period. She knew better than to object. Even though she tried and failed.
It had been a few more weeks since I took her to the gala, and until now, she’d refused to speak to me because, obviously, I was a “selfish maniac” who was so full of himself.
I’d killed people for far lesser crimes than that sharp tongue of hers. Yet every time she crossed a line, I’d find an excuse not to punish her.
This time, it was because she was pregnant. Being pregnant meant that her emotions were unstable and that she was in a fragile state.
Of course, I wasn’t going to punish her in that condition. She was carrying my child, for Christ’s sake.
Since she decided to stay away from me, I thought it wise to keep my distance. Besides, the wedding preparations were already ongoing. I put Hilda in charge. Who else did I trust to handle such an event?
The instructions were simple: to keep it simple but classy. I wanted the wedding to be strictly by invitation. Essentially, only family and very close relatives were expected at the church.
Now that the wedding plans had been made public, I knew Rocco Alessandro Romano would try to make a move. So, I took extra steps to frustrate his future efforts.
I ordered Konstantin to reevaluate every member of the Bratva under my supervision. And after a thorough digging, he found out that three of my men had been compromised. Again.
Without raising an alarm, I instructed him to take care of them silently. He did exactly that by sending them to hell and cleaning up the mess they’d left behind.
My men worked day and night just to make sure that the wedding was a success. Security was tripled around the house during the period. And no one came in or left the estate without my permission.
I learned from my mistake and vowed never to be caught by surprise again. Every loophole was sealed, leaving no crack for the enemy to slip through.
The big day arrived in no time: a small crowd, fancy suits, and elegant dresses. The venue was a church downtown, surrounded by nature and heavily armed Bratva men. Exotic cars were parked outside, a testament to the fact that this was a gathering of powerful and important people.
I stood on the altar, looking sharp in my perfectly tailored black tux, waiting for my bride. Eight of my best men stood guard, filling the front row. Their sharp eyes scanned the space, always on the lookout for anything unusual.
The front doors parted, and she appeared at the entrance, draped in the sunlight. My heart skipped a beat when I watched her march down the aisle, her ivory gown hugging her in all the right places.
Her hair was styled into a neat bun on top of her head, and her skin glowed under the chandelier’s warm light. Heads turned as she moved elegantly, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.
Gorgeous.
Those beautiful amber eyes were locked on me from across the aisle, her lips parted into a small grin. It seemed both plastic and authentic. The nearer she drew to the altar, the more my pulse raced.
I couldn’t understand why I was nervous. I was the groom, the one in control of the situation. Petty feelings like this shouldn’t even creep in at all.
She moved like a pageant queen, gracious and confident. The shining pearls around her neck added to her overall sophistication. And her heels made her look inches taller.
It was like staring at a goddess, one that would be officially mine in a minute. I stretched out my hand and helped her accent the long steps before the altar.
When she stood in front of me with that soft expression on her face, something frozen thawed inside me.
The priest cleared his throat and began, his voice echoing off the walls. “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to witness….”
I fixed my eyes on my bride as the ceremonial rites were recited. She held my gaze, a glimpse of something familiar flashing across her face. I couldn’t tell if it was defiance or acceptance. Or maybe a blend of both.
Her expression had become hard to read; it was as unsettling as it was fascinating. I used to read her so easily. But today of all days, I couldn’t. And a part of me hated that. I was either losing my game, or she had leveled up hers.
Soon, it was time for the vows, and I saw her breath hitch in her throat.
“Do you, Celine Hart, take this man, Artur Tarasov, to be your lawfully wedded husband…?”
Her eyes grew glassy, her lips subtly quivering as the question was asked. She hesitated, but only for a moment before responding.
She said, “I do.”
My lips curled into a faint, self-satisfied grin.
The priest turned to me, “Do you, Artur Tarasov, take Celine Hart to be your lawfully wedded wife…?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “I do.”
We exchanged rings, and while mine slipped on her finger, I noticed her hands were trembling.
He spread out his arms. “By the power vested in me, I hereby pronounce you husband and wife.”
Her shoulders slumped, and a quiet exhale escaped her lips—painted a muted shade of red.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
I pulled her close, sealing our union with a soft kiss.
The guests rose to their feet, clapping and cheering.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Tarasov,” I whispered in her ear. “You’re officially mine now.”
She didn’t say anything to me; she just smiled, the kind born of pain and defeat. Perhaps I should go easy on her. Perhaps I should dial it down on how much I rubbed her inability to be free right in her face.
Under the right circumstances, this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. But it wasn’t, and she was hurting so much already. Maybe a little sympathy from me would go a long way.
Camera lights flashed in our faces as my private photographers captured the moment. I held her close, my possessive hand around her waist as we smiled at the crowd.
***
The wedding was a success.
The ceremony went smoothly, the guests left elated, and there was no attack on life or property. None whatsoever.
Later that night, after walking my cousins to the car, I returned to our bedroom, a bit exhausted. She was gazing out the window when I walked in, jacket draped over my hand, tie sagging around my neck.
The zip of her dress was halfway down her back, the sleeves loose over her shoulders. She had her arms across her chest, her back against the door. And in the silence of her new bedroom, she stood by the window, watching the night sky outside.
I tossed my jacket onto the nearest chair as I approached her, one hand in my pocket.
“I’d always wanted to be a mother. A wife,” she said softly without turning to look at me. “I just never imagined it happening this way, you know.”
I halted behind her, silent.
“It’s quite unfair,” she added under her breath, her tone laced with defeat.
She wasn’t raging. Just sad. Like she’d lost the will to fight and had accepted her fate.
“It is unfair,” I replied quietly. “But that’s how life works. It doesn’t always go our way. It doesn’t favor us unless we turn the tide and take matters into our own hands.”
She listened without interrupting.
I continued, “That’s why men like me always get what we want. Because we understand that the game is rigged. And playing fair gets you nowhere.”
She turned around, her head rising to face me. “Some of us have something called dignity. We play by the books.”
“Dignity?” I scoffed. “What is that if not a societal construct designed to keep the weak oppressed?”
“That’s not true,” she said, shaking her head. “Your view of life is flawed.”
“Wake up, Celine,” I said. “The world doesn’t reward people with ‘dignity.’ It rewards manipulators. Liars. Dictators—those who aren’t afraid to do whatever it takes to win. That’s the side I’m on. The side that commands fear and respect.”
She paused, her gaze unwavering, her hand reaching out to touch my face. She stared into my eyes as if searching for something, then finally whispered, “I see it now.”
“See what?”
“Your brokenness.”
“I’m not broken.”
She brushed her thumb against my cheek, her voice soft and gentle. “Artur, only a broken man views the world through a broken lens.”
Those words stung like a fuckin’ bee, a little more than they should have.
She tapped my face, curled her lips into a faint grin, and walked past me. I stood there by the window, unsure of how that statement made me feel.
“Are you coming or what?” she asked from behind me.
I slowly turned around and found her standing in front of the bed. My brows knitted together, confused. “What’s going on?”
“This is our first night as a married couple,” she began. “We have a duty to consummate it. Take your clothes off.”
Shocked by her last statement, my brows arched, a quiet scoff escaping my lips. “I know you think I’m a monster. But I won’t take you without your consent.”
Silence.
I let the words sink in for a second. “I also won’t indulge in this consummation act if you only see it as a duty.”
She reached for the zipper behind her back and slowly dragged it all the way down.
I watched in quiet anticipation, my heart already racing in my chest.
Celine held my gaze while undressing before me, her eyes holding a glint of desire. She slid her arms from the sleeves of her gown. One after the other.
Her fingers clutched the silk fabric, and she began tugging the dress down her body. Her breasts first came into view—beautiful and full—her nipples hard and erect.
My breath hitched at the sight.
The gown fell loosely at her feet, and she stepped out of it. Stark naked.
“Is this consent enough?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Celine—”