Chapter Twelve - Makar

The room is an echo of opulence, every corner gilded with wealth and tradition. High chandeliers cast a golden glow over the gathered audience, their murmurs fading into silence as the ceremonial proceedings begin. This is a private affair, meant for my inner circle and select allies. It isn’t a celebration—it’s a transaction.

A necessary binding.

I stand at the front, unmoving, my posture straight and composed. The silk of my tie feels suffocating, but I don’t adjust it. Instead, I let the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders, reminding myself why this has to happen.

It’s for the child. For the Sharov name. For order.

The ornate double doors at the end of the aisle creak open, and all heads turn, including mine.

Hannah stands in the doorway, a vision of defiance wrapped in satin and lace. The dress is a work of art, clinging to her figure in a way that’s both modest and striking. The sleeves of delicate lace hug her arms, and the fabric flows around her like liquid light. Her dark hair frames her face, drawing attention to her wide, unyielding eyes.

She hesitates, her hand clutching a bouquet of pale roses that trembles slightly. But even with that flicker of uncertainty, there’s strength in her stance. Her chin is lifted, her jaw set, her defiance written in every line of her body.

The sight of her stirs something unexpected in me. I’ve seen her angry, fearful, defiant—but this? This quiet resilience? It’s more captivating than I’m willing to admit.

I remind myself why I’m here. Why she’s here.

She begins her slow walk down the aisle, her movements graceful despite the tension radiating from her. Each step brings her closer, and I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the room on us. I meet her gaze briefly, and she holds it for a fraction of a second before looking away, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Good.

When she reaches the front, I extend my hand, waiting. She pauses, her hesitation obvious, before she reluctantly places her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, her grip stiff, but I guide her to stand beside me, facing the officiant.

The priest clears his throat, his voice deep and steady as he begins the ceremony. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Hannah Fox and Makar Sharov, bound together by the vows they will now exchange.”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her face is pale but composed, her lips tight with a bitterness she doesn’t bother to hide.

“Marriage,” the priest continues, “is a sacred commitment. A promise to protect, honor, and cherish one another. Hannah, do you take Makar to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

Her body stiffens beside me, and for a moment, I think she won’t speak.

Her voice, when it comes, is low but steady. “I do,” she says, the words clipped and devoid of emotion.

Her defiance is palpable, but she gets through it. I see the tightness in her throat as she forces the words out, her eyes narrowing as she stares straight ahead.

The priest nods and turns to me. “Makar, do you take Hannah to be your lawful wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” I say, my tone firm, certain.

The vows continue, the words mechanical and rehearsed, their meaning irrelevant to either of us. When it’s time to exchange rings, I slide the band onto her finger, the cool metal gleaming against her pale skin. She hesitates before placing my ring on my finger, her touch fleeting, her gaze distant.

The priest folds his hands, his expression solemn. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The words linger, heavy and suffocating.

I turn to her, her jaw tightening as I lean in. The kiss isn’t romantic—it’s an obligation. My lips brush against her cheek briefly, the barest gesture of compliance. It’s cold, perfunctory, and when I step back, her gaze is icy.

The room erupts into polite applause, the sound measured and restrained. It’s done.

I extend my arm to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it. Her grip is light, almost nonexistent, but I lead her back down the aisle, the applause fading into a low hum of murmured conversation.

As we step into the adjacent hall, the silence between us feels louder than any applause could.

“Congratulations,” Andrei says, approaching with a sly grin.

I nod curtly, my grip on Hannah’s arm tightening slightly. “Handle the reception,” I order, my tone clipped. “Keep it brief.”

Andrei inclines his head, his gaze flicking briefly to Hannah before he steps away.

She pulls her arm from mine the moment he’s gone, putting space between us.

“It’s done,” I say quietly, watching her carefully.

“Don’t talk to me,” she snaps, her voice trembling with barely contained anger.

I raise an eyebrow, my lips curving into a faint, humorless smirk. “You went through with it,” I point out.

Her eyes blaze with fury as she steps closer, her voice low and sharp. “Yeah, I don’t want to know what you’d have done if I said no.”

“True.”

Her jaw clenches, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You’re a monster,” she says, her voice trembling but resolute.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “This is your reality now. Whether you like it or not, my child is yours to bear.”

Her breath catches, her fury giving way to something else—something vulnerable and raw. But she doesn’t cry. She just stares at me, her eyes filled with a defiance I know will burn long after this moment.

“Enjoy the reception,” I say coolly, straightening. “You’re the guest of honor, after all.”

***

The reception is exactly what I planned—efficient, restrained, and purposeful. It’s held in the grand hall of my mansion, a room designed to impress without excess.

Crystal chandeliers cast a steady glow over polished marble floors, their light reflecting off the sleek black suits and glittering jewelry of the attendees. The air is thick with the scent of cigars, champagne, and unspoken alliances.

This isn’t a celebration. It’s a declaration.

I stand at the center of it all, Hannah at my side. Her hand rests lightly on my arm, though it’s clear from the stiffness in her posture that she’s doing it out of necessity, not choice. She’s trying to look composed, but I see through her—the tightness of her jaw, the subtle tension in her shoulders. She’s angry.

Resentful.

A man without spirit wouldn’t have caught my attention, and a woman without it wouldn’t survive in my world.

“Congratulations, Boss.”

Andrei is the first to approach, his smirk faint but unmistakable as he offers a handshake. I accept it, my grip firm.

“Thank you,” I say, my tone even.

His gaze shifts briefly to Hannah. “To you, Mrs. Sharov.”

She bristles at the title, though she hides it well.

“Thank you,” she replies stiffly, her voice clipped.

Andrei chuckles, clearly amused, before stepping aside to make way for the others.

One by one, they approach—lieutenants, trusted allies, key players in the Bratva. Their words of congratulations are polite, measured, and calculated. Each handshake is a reminder of the power shift this union represents.

Hannah endures it all with a quiet defiance that doesn’t escape me. She hates every second of this, but she’s smart enough not to show it too openly.

The room hums with low conversation, glasses clinking softly as my men make their obligatory toasts.

“To the Sharovs,” someone says, raising a glass. The rest follow, the words echoing through the hall.

Hannah doesn’t respond, her lips pressing into a thin line. I allow her silence.

When the last guest finally steps away, leaving us momentarily alone, I turn to her.

“This is your place now,” I tell her, my voice low and deliberate. “By my side. Under my name.”

Her eyes narrow as she glares up at me. “You don’t own me,” she hisses, her voice sharp and defiant.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “I do,” I reply coldly, letting the weight of my words settle. “Completely. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us.”

She exhales sharply, her anger radiating off her in waves.

“You belong to me now, Hannah,” I continue, my tone softening slightly but still firm. “Your loyalty, your obedience—they aren’t optional. They’re expected.”

“You won’t crush me,” she spits, her voice trembling.

I smirk faintly, unfazed by her insult. “Perhaps,” I say, my tone quiet but steady. “Everything you do, is because I allow it. Remember that.”

Her glare intensifies, but she doesn’t respond.

The rest of the reception proceeds like clockwork. My men offer more toasts, their words polished but predictable. I nod in acknowledgment, accepting their congratulations with the same calm detachment I’ve carried throughout the evening.

Hannah remains at my side, silent and rigid, a doll dressed in lace and satin. She smiles only when absolutely necessary, her resentment simmering just beneath the surface.

When the final guest departs, the grand hall falls into an uneasy silence.

I glance at her, noting the exhaustion etched into her features. “It’s time,” I say simply, offering my arm.

“For what?” she asks bitterly, though I can see the answer already dawning in her eyes.

I don’t reply, my gaze steady as I wait. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes my arm, her grip light and reluctant.

Her defiance is clear in every step as I lead her out of the hall. The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor echoes through the empty space, a rhythmic reminder of her presence—and her resistance.

She’s mine now. Completely.

The hall is finally emptying as the last few guests murmur their goodbyes and file out, leaving behind only silence and the faint clink of glasses being cleared away by staff. Andrei lingers near the doorway, his smirk firmly in place as he watches me.

“Well, Boss,” he says, stepping closer. “Quite the event. Everything went off without a hitch.”

I nod, my gaze steady. “Efficient, as it should be.”

He chuckles, casting a glance toward Hannah, who remains stiff and silent at my side. “Now for the best part of the evening. Enjoy your wedding night.”

Hannah’s entire body tenses beside me, her hand tightening briefly on my arm before she lets it fall away.

I don’t react immediately, though I can feel her unease like a physical weight between us. My eyes flick to Andrei, who raises an eyebrow before winking, clearly enjoying himself.

“Leave,” I say, my tone calm but edged with finality.

Andrei raises his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. My work here is done. Congratulations again, Boss.” He steps back, smirking one last time as he disappears into the shadows of the hallway.

The tension between Hannah and me is palpable, her posture rigid as she stares straight ahead.

“You don’t need to look so alarmed,” I say quietly, my voice low but steady.

Her head snaps toward me, her brown eyes blazing. “Don’t I?” she demands, her tone sharp.

I grin faintly, leaning closer. “You’ll enjoy yourself tonight, Hannah,” I say, my voice dropping into something softer, almost coaxing. “I don’t force what should be freely given.”

Her eyes narrow, suspicion warring with the faintest flicker of relief. “What if I don’t want to?”

My grins widens just slightly. “Then you’ll simply sleep. No one will touch you without your consent.”

She studies me for a long moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t trust you,” she says finally.

“You don’t have to,” I reply smoothly, turning and extending my arm again. “I don’t lie.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she takes it, her grip hesitant and light.

The night is far from over, but this is a start. A small step toward understanding.

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