Chapter 3
VERA
It’s the morning of my wedding, but it could better be called a funeral.
The white dress they’re putting on me feels more like a burial shroud than a wedding gown.
It’s heavy silk and hand-beaded with crystals that catch the morning light streaming through my bedroom window. It’s beautiful. It’s exquisite. And I want to tear it off and run.
But I can’t. So I stand here like a mannequin while the seamstress makes final adjustments to the hem, while the makeup artist touches up my foundation for the third time, while my mother sits in the corner chair and cries.
She’s been crying since she came into my room an hour ago. Quiet, dignified tears that she keeps wiping away with a tissue that’s now shredded in her hands.
Elena Ashford doesn’t cry often.
I’ve seen her cry maybe three times in my entire life—when her own mother died, when my sisters were born premature, and now.
Now, as she watches her oldest daughter prepare to marry a man who will likely destroy her.
“I tried,” she whispers suddenly, her voice raw and broken. “I tried to talk your father out of this. I begged him. I told him there had to be another way. But he—” Her voice cracks. “He said it was the only way to keep us all safe. The only way to stop the war.”
“I know, Mom,” I say softly even though my voice sounds hollow and distant. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” she says fiercely, standing up.
She crosses to me and takes my hands in hers.
Her fingers are cold and trembling. “None of this is okay. You’re my baby girl, and I’m watching you—” She can’t finish and instead, pulls me into her arms and holds me tight, careful not to crush the dress.
I want to cry and sob into her shoulder the way I did when I was little and the world felt too big and scary. But I can’t because if I start crying now, I’ll never stop.
The door bursts open, and my twin sisters rush in.
Lydia and Natasha are twelve years old, identical in every way except their personalities.
Lydia is the bold one, all fire and questions while Natasha is gentler and more thoughtful. Right now, though, they both look apprehensive.
“Vera!” Lydia throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “You look so pretty! But why does everyone look so sad? Isn’t a wedding supposed to be happy?”
Natasha is quieter, but she takes my hand, squeezing tight. Her dark eyes—so much like our father’s—are filled with confusion and fear. “Do you have to go? Can’t you stay here with us?”
My heart breaks all over again. They’re so young. So innocent.
They don’t understand what’s happening or know that their oldest sister is being sacrificed to prevent a war.
They don’t know that our family killed a man and now I have to pay the price.
“I have to go,” I whisper, kneeling down so I’m at their eye level. The dress pools around me like a white cloud. “But I’ll visit, I promise. And you can call me anytime you want, okay?”
Even as I say it, I’m not sure it's true. I don’t know what kind of life I’ll have as Dimitri Volkov’s wife. I don’t know if he’ll let me see my family or if I’ll even be allowed to leave his house.
If my future husband’s family killed my sister, I sure as hell wouldn’t let them have any privileges. And if I’m saying that, Dimitri Volkov certainly won’t.
I feel sick. Will I even survive this marriage?
“Girls, come on,” my mother says gently, ushering them toward the door. “Let your sister finish getting ready.”
They hug me one more time—fierce, desperate hugs that make my heart hurt—and then they’re gone. The door closes behind them, and the room feels emptier.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at my father.
Dad stands at the bottom, dressed in a charcoal suit, his face carefully blank. But his eyes—his eyes are full of guilt and pain and…is that shame?
He can’t even meet my gaze for more than a second before looking away.
Good. He should feel guilty. He should feel ashamed. He’s the one who’s selling me to the Volkovs. He’s the one who’s decided my life is an acceptable price to pay for peace.
But then I see my Uncle Marcus standing beside him, and rage floods through me so hot and sharp I can barely breathe.
Marcus Ashford looks satisfied. Actually satisfied. There’s a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he’s pleased with how everything has turned out.
This is the man who killed Alexei. Who pulled the trigger and murdered the father of my child in cold blood.
And he’s standing here at my fucking wedding like nothing happened. Like he didn’t destroy my entire future.
I want to scream at him and fly down these stairs and claw that smug smile off his face. I want to tell everyone what he did, what they all did.
But I don’t. I just grip my bouquet tighter (white roses and lilies, the same flowers that covered Alexei’s grave, how fucking fitting) and descend the stairs one careful step at a time.
This was supposed to be joyous. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I used to dream about my wedding day when I was little.
The white dress, the flowers, the church filled with people who loved me.
Walking down the aisle to the man I loved, seeing his face light up when he saw me, promising to spend our lives together.
I had imagined walking down the aisle to Alexei Volkov. His blue eyes would brighten, that beautiful smile spread across his face. He would whisper “You’re so beautiful” as I reached his side. I dreamed of being Mrs. Volkov.
I wasn’t specific enough with my wishes as I am going to be Mrs. Volkov. But instead of it being Mrs. Alexei Volkov, it’ll be Mrs. Dimitri Volkov. The man whose cold gray eyes promise nothing but hatred. The man who will never love me, who will never want me, who will only ever see me as the enemy.
And I’m carrying a secret that could get me killed.
My hand wants to drift to my stomach again, but I force it to stay at my side. I can’t draw attention or let anyone suspect. I’m probably about six weeks along now so there’s nothing to see or feel, but the knowledge burns inside me like a brand.
I want to scream it at all of them. I’m carrying a Volkov baby! I’m pregnant with Alexei's child! You killed the father of my baby!
But terror keeps me silent. Because if I tell them—if anyone finds out—what happens then? Does Dimitri kill me for carrying his brother’s child? Does my father try to force me to get rid of it? Does the fragile peace shatter completely?
I don’t know and I’m too afraid to find out.
So I keep walking. Keep smiling. Keep pretending this is all normal and fine and exactly what I want.
The wedding ceremony takes place at city hall.
It’s not the beautiful church I’d always envisioned. I’m not surrounded by friends and loved ones who came to celebrate. There’s no music and flowers and joy.
Instead, I get a sterile government building with fluorescent lights and beige walls.
A judge who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, and two families who hate each other, separated by an invisible line down the middle of the room.
Armed guards are everywhere. Volkov men on one side, Ashford men on the other. All of them tense, hands resting near concealed weapons, ready for violence to break out at any moment.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a hostage exchange.
And I’m the hostage.
Dimitri arrives exactly on time, flanked by four of his men.
He’s wearing a black suit and of course it’s black, because even at his wedding he looks like he’s attending a funeral.
The fabric is expensive, perfectly tailored to his massive frame, but there’s nothing celebratory about it.
He looks like death itself walking through those doors.
He doesn’t look at me. Not when he enters or when he takes his place beside me at the front of the room.
He doesn’t even look when the judge begins the ceremony with words that sound hollow and meaningless.
I stand beside this stranger—this man who will be my husband in minutes—and he won’t even acknowledge my existence.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating than he was at the funeral. Taller, broader, radiating a kind of controlled violence that makes my skin prickle with instinctive fear. I can smell his cologne (it’s heady with cedar and smoke) and feel the heat radiating off his body.
He’s real. This is real. In a few minutes, I’ll be his wife.
The judge is saying something about marriage, about commitment, about joining two people in matrimony but the words wash over me like white noise. I can’t focus or think. I can only stare straight ahead and try to keep breathing.
“Dimitri Volkov,” the judge says, “do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
There’s a pause. A long, horrible pause where I think maybe—maybe—he’ll say no.
Maybe he’ll refuse and this nightmare will end right here.
Then he speaks, and his voice is like ice scraping over stone.
“I do.”
He spits the words out like they’re poison, like saying them physically hurts him. There’s so much venom in those two syllables that I actually flinch.
The judge turns to me, his face impassive as if he didn’t just see me recoil. “Vera Ashford, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. I can feel everyone watching me. My family on one side, his on the other. All of them waiting to see if I’ll do this and actually go through with it.
My mother’s tears cross my vision along with my sisters' confused faces. The guards everywhere, the tension, the threat of war hanging over all of us.
I think of the baby growing inside me. The last piece of Alexei.
“I do,” I whisper. My voice shakes, but the words are clear enough.
Dimitri’s eyes finally meet mine for the first time since the ceremony began.
They’re exactly like I remember from the funeral. Cold gray, like chips of ice but now, this close, I can see more.
I can see the storm churning beneath the surface. The rage. The hatred. The promise of retribution.