Chapter Seven
Sunlight hits my eyelids, but instead of warmth, it feels like an interrogation lamp. I crack one eye open and stare at the ceiling. The date on my phone mocks me from the nightstand.
One week. It’s been almost seven days since the café, and the only leeway I have is that I’ve been allowed to stay in my own apartment until the wedding.
I thought I’d have more time. I thought I could find a way out, a loophole, a strategy to delay him. Nikita doesn’t do delays, though.
Throwing the covers off, I sit up. My stomach is in knots, a tight tangle of anxiety and determination. This is it. The day I sell my soul for a chance at the truth.
Getting close to him made sense. It was a calculated risk. But marriage? This wasn’t part of the equation. I’m signing away my autonomy, my name, my legal identity. If I say “I do,” I belong to the Bratva. Forever.
I walk to the window and peek through the blinds.
A black SUV is parked at the curb. Another one is idling by the alley. Two men in suits stand near the front entrance of my building, looking like gargoyles carved from expensive Italian wool.
They aren’t just security. They’re jailers. I’m not being given a choice. Nikita isn’t asking for my consent; he’s collecting his asset.
Panic flares, hot and sharp. I can’t do this. I can’t just walk into that chapel and hand my life over.
Think, Freya. Think.
I have resources. I have friends. I have a phone in my hand.
I’m not going.
Moving fast, I grab my go-bag—a duffel I packed three nights ago and hid in the back of the closet. Cash, a burner phone, a change of clothes. I pull on jeans and a hoodie, shoving my feet into sneakers. No makeup. No jewelry. I leave the ring on the nightstand.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of taking it off me.
Creeping to the back door, I listen. Silence. The building is old, the hallway carpet muffling my steps. I slip out the back exit, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. I move down two flights, then slip out the service door into the alley.
It works. For a glorious, heart-pounding moment, it works.
I hail a cab two blocks away, keeping my head down.
I give the driver an address across town—the only place I can think of that might actually offer help.
Not the police precinct in my neighborhood, which Nikita likely has in his pocket.
I go to the 19th Precinct in the Upper East Side.
It’s busier, more anonymous. Harder to corrupt.
The ride feels like an eternity. I watch the rearview mirror constantly, expecting to see those black SUVs materializing behind us. Except the traffic is heavy, the city chaotic. I lose myself in the stream of yellow taxis and delivery trucks.
When the cab pulls up, I throw a twenty at the driver and run.
Inside, the precinct is a cacophony of ringing phones and shouting voices. The smell of stale coffee and floor wax is pungent. It’s ugly. It’s bureaucratic. It’s perfect.
I rush to the desk sergeant, a heavy-set man with a mustache who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“I need help,” I gasp, leaning against the counter. “Please. I’m being forced into a marriage.”
He looks up, his eyes dull. “Name?”
“Freya Smith. Look, my fiancé… he’s dangerous. He’s connected. He has men outside my house. I didn’t consent to this. It’s coercion.”
The sergeant sighs, a long, suffering sound. “Miss, domestic disputes are civil matters. Unless he’s physically assaulting you right now, there’s nothing we can do.”
“He threatened me!” I insist, my voice rising. “He threatened my family. He’s part of the Gromov organization. The Bratva.”
The mention of the name changes the air in the room. The sergeant stops typing. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second, I think I’ve gotten through. Then, his eyes shift to someone behind me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know that feeling. That heavy, suffocating presence.
I turn slowly, and watch as Nikita walks in.
He’s wearing a dark gray suit, immaculate and terrifyingly calm. He looks like he belongs here, or perhaps like he owns the place. He isn’t sweating. He isn’t out of breath. He looks like he just stepped out of a board meeting.
“Miss Smith,” he says, his voice smooth, projecting effortlessly over the noise of the station. “There you are.”
The sergeant stands up immediately. “Mr. Gromov. We were just—”
“I know,” Nikita says, offering him a polite nod. “She’s been under a lot of stress. Wedding jitters. I told her not to come here, but she can be… dramatic.”
“Dramatic,” the sergeant repeats, relaxing visibly. “Right. Cold feet. Happens all the time.”
“He’s lying!” I cry out, grabbing the sergeant’s arm. “I’m not having cold feet. He’s forcing me!”
Nikita steps closer, invading my space. He doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t have to. The sheer force of his personality is overwhelming.
“Freya,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to an intimate whisper that makes my skin crawl. “Don’t make a scene. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“I’m not embarrassed!” I yell. “I’m scared.”
“She’s having an episode,” Nikita tells the sergeant, shaking his head with practiced sympathy. “Her brother disappeared a few years ago. It’s been very hard on her mental health. She gets paranoid.”
The sergeant’s expression softens into pity. Pity. I want to scream.
“Miss, maybe you should go with your husband,” he suggests gently. “Get some air.”
“Husband?” I choke out. “Jesus, we aren’t married.”
“Close enough,” the sergeant says dismissively.
I look around the station, desperate for another ally. Anyone. A younger cop, a civilian. Everyone is avoiding my eyes. They know. They all know who Nikita is, and they want no part of it.
This system isn’t designed to protect people like me. It’s designed to protect people like him.
“Fine,” I whisper, the fight draining out of me. “I’ll go.”
“Smart choice,” Nikita says. He places a hand on my lower back. “Thank you for your patience, Officer.”
“Anytime, Mr. Gromov. Congratulations on the wedding.”
“Thank you.”
He steers me toward the door. I don’t fight him. There’s no point. I tried the law, and the law failed.
We step outside into the bright afternoon sun. The town car is waiting at the curb. This time, I get in without being asked.
The ride to the venue is silent. Nikita doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even gloat; he just sits there, calm and composed, checking his watch.
“You can run,” he says suddenly, not looking at me. “It changes nothing.”
“I know,” I reply, staring out the window. “You own the police. You own the city. Who else is left?”
“You learn fast.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You never did.”
The car pulls up to a private estate in the Hamptons. It’s a sprawling mansion with manicured lawns and an ocean view. There are no reporters outside. No paparazzi. Only rows of luxury cars and men in earpieces.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a business merger.
They lead me to a dressing room—a spacious suite filled with flowers and the dress Nikita picked out. It’s white, lace, extravagant. It fits perfectly, which makes me feel ill.
Davina is there, waiting for me. She looks terrified.
“Freya,” she says, rushing over. “Are you okay? I tried to call, but…”
“I know,” I say, hugging her tight. “It’s okay. I’m doing this.”
“You don’t have to,” she whispers. “We can still run. I have a car outside.”
“And go where?” I ask, pulling back to look at her. “He found me at the precinct in twenty minutes, Davina. There is nowhere to go.”
She looks at me, her eyes swimming with tears, and realizes I’m right. She helps me into the dress, zipping it up with trembling fingers. She pins my hair up, leaving a few loose curls around my face. She applies the makeup that will mask my fear.
“You look beautiful,” she says, trying to smile.
The ceremony takes place in a sunroom at the back of the house. Glass walls overlook the Atlantic. The guests are seated in velvet chairs—maybe fifty people total. I recognize some faces from the gala. Others are strangers, men with hard eyes and women with expensive jewelry.
Bratva.
Nikita stands at the front, waiting for me. He looks devastating in a black tuxedo, his hands clasped in front of him. He watches me walk down the aisle, his expression unreadable.
I take slow breaths, counting the steps. One. Two. Three.
I reach him, and he offers me his arm. I take it, my fingers gripping the expensive fabric of his sleeve.
The officiant begins to speak. Words about love and commitment and eternity. They sound like a bad joke.
“Nikita Gromov,” the officiant says, “do you take Freya Annie Smith to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” he answers. His voice is steady, certain. A vow to the world, and a threat to me.
“Freya Smith,” he says, turning to me, “do you take Nikita Gromov to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The silence stretches. Everyone is watching. Nikita is watching. I see the challenge in his eyes. He knows I have no choice; he knows I’m doing this for Ayaan.
Part of me wonders… would I have done it anyway?
The heat of his arm burns through my dress. His presence is a gravitational pull, steady and unshaken. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact: his shoulder, his hand, the scent of leather and cedar that fills my senses.
“I do,” I say.
The words are barely out of my mouth before he slides the ring onto my finger. It’s heavy, gold, and diamond encrusted.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he murmurs, loud enough for the guests to hear. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
He turns to me, and before I can brace myself, his hand is on my waist, pulling me flush against him. He lowers his head, and his lips claim mine.
It’s not a peck. It’s not a polite gesture for the crowd.
His mouth is hot, demanding, tasting of mint and dominance. He kisses me like he’s staking a claim, like he’s sealing a contract. I stand frozen for a second, my hands hovering at his sides, before—traitorously—they clutch his lapels.
I kiss him back. Not because I want to, but because I need to feel something other than fear.
Applause erupts, breaking the spell. He pulls back, his eyes dark, searching my face.
“Mrs. Gromov,” he whispers.
The name hits me like a physical blow.
We walk back down the aisle, man and wife. The guests smile and clap, but their eyes are cold. They’re assessing me, weighing my value.
Inside the house, the reception begins. Champagne flows. Nikita stays by my side, his hand never leaving my lower back. He introduces me to men with names I don’t care to remember. They shake my hand, their grips firm, their eyes lingering on my body.
“Congratulations, Nikita,” an older man says, his accent thick. “She is… healthy. Good breeding stock.”
My face burns, but I smile. “Right… stock.”
Nikita squeezes my side, a silent warning. “Drink,” he murmurs, pressing a glass into my hand. “You look like you need it.”
I drain the glass in one swallow, the bubbles burning my throat. The alcohol hits my empty stomach, loosening my muscles, dulling the sharp edges of my panic.
“You played your part well,” he says later, leading me out onto a balcony for a moment of air.
“It wasn’t a play,” I say, leaning against the railing and looking at the dark ocean. “It was a surrender.”
“It was a strategic move,” he corrects. “And you survived.”
“I’m not sure I did,” I whisper.