Chapter 3
If I was a stalker, where would I be?
VALENTINA
THREE DAYS LATER
“Ilook like a damn cupcake covered in too much fondant and a vat of glitter sprinkles,” I spit out to Sasha, who’s arrived in the dressing room.
After fluffing out the exorbitant train, the attendants leave me alone.
He shrugs. “Our father’s choice naturally.”
I wrinkle my nose. “If he wants me to be seen from space in this godforsaken travesty of confectionery, I’m sure he’s accomplished it.”
He spews laughter through his cheeks.
I roll my eyes, glad I can always amuse him. One of my missions in life.
“Of course I didn’t even get to choose my own wedding dress,” I huff, more than annoyed. My scalp is practically screaming from the updo with a thousand bobby pins taming my wild curls.
“You know I don’t like this anymore than you do.”
Sasha steps closer, his hand resting on my shoulder, a gentle weight against the crushing force of expectation. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me through the mirror as I stand there in this grotesque wedding gown, all silk and suffocation.
“You still look beautiful, Valya,” he finally murmurs.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “If I wanted to look like a human chandelier, sure.”
His lips twitch, but there’s no real amusement. I know this is killing him too.
I glance away from the mirror, heart plummeting. “I can’t do this.”
Sasha sighs. “You don’t have a choice.”
There it is. The truth, sharp as an unforgiving blade. I swallow hard, because panic is weakness, and my father exploits weakness.
I turn, forcing a smirk. “You sure about that?”
Sasha stiffens. “Valentina—”
Turning away from the 360-mirror, I hoist up the heavy gown and try to step down from the pedestal. I’m normally graceful and light-footed, but with all the heavy layers of tulle, I stumble, grateful when Sasha catches me.
He’s right. But it doesn’t mean I won’t fight like hell. Might as well show the Makarova boys what this Volkov girl is made of. I may be half Russian, but we are known for our resilience, our independence. And passion.
I’ve trained for this my whole life. The perfect marriage of power and control. But damn it all. I’m still angry. Angry that I don’t get to choose. Angry that my father fated me for this. This isn’t about me. It never was.
I’m fully prepared, knowing Anton will fuck me tonight. But every smile will be another weapon. Fuck pulling his puppet strings. I’ll cut my own and get the fuck out as soon as possible, knowing Sasha will help. The last thing I’ll be is an incubator for that goddamn playboy.
After I request some “alone time”, Sasha kisses my cheek and departs.
As soon as he closes the door, I’m gone, my gown a storm of fabric trailing behind me as I slip through the door and into my bedroom.
The moment it clicks shut, I hike up the skirt.
The bedroom window looms ahead—double-paned glass, but the latch is simple.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the sight of the wilting purple roses. Hissing through my teeth, I rush for the secret place in my mattress, snatch up the black pearl choker, and shove it into one of the deep pockets of the gown.
Hell, it can be my “something borrowed”.
It might be a lost cause, but maybe he’s watching. My stalker. If he is as resourceful as getting all those notes to me and the flowers, he must know what today is.
He’s my last hope. I should slap some sense into myself. A stalker is my last hope.
“What the hell are you thinking, Valentina?” I mutter as I shove open the window.
Cold air rushes against my overheated skin, offering relief. The drop is far enough that a misstep could break an ankle. I don’t think about it. I grip the windowsill and swing my legs over.
“A stalker could strangle you,” I go on, “carve his initials into your ribs, and drop your body into an iceberg.” I climb more, gripping the wall sconces, lantern mounts, and even the trellis. Shaking my head with a laugh, I snort. “That still sounds like a better wedding night than Anton.”
The night is dark, the wind biting my bare arms. To my left, the cliff drops steeply toward the churning black sea. To my right, the dark forest is endless.
He’s out there. I know he is.
My stalker—the one who’s made me feel more alive than ever—he’s a ghost, a threat, a promise. And I need him.
I grip the rough stone, my fingers aching. Every shift of fabric, every scrape of my heels against the stone sends my heart slamming against my ribs. My breath is fast, desperate.
I hit the ground and gather my wits.
If I were a stalker, where would I be?
Gripping my gown ruffles, I kick off my heels and lunge for the woods. Freedom is right there. Just a little farther—
Until strong hands clamp around my waist.
I cry out as I’m wrenched backward until I’m forced to turn. A security guard’s face looms over me, impassive.
“That’s enough, Miss Volkov.”
I thrash, but it’s useless. He hauls me toward the house, my bare feet skimming the cold grass, my breath bursting. Damn. I should have known.
A minute later, the guard thrusts me into the entryway of our grand estate, and suddenly, I’m standing before my father—all decked out in his three-piece tailored suit, his chunky crest signet ring, Patek Philippe watch, and black fur-lined overcoat. I blow frustrated breath through my nose.
His face is a storm cloud, dark eyes flashing with fury. “We don’t have time for this. Soon enough, you won’t be my problem anymore.”
“At least I won’t have to see your face anymore. Silver lining, I guess.” No. More like a consolation prize.
His jaw tightens, but he grips my arm, his fingers bruising, and shoves me toward the limousine. I stumble but hold my head high, refusing to let him see me break. Our security guard passes him my discarded heels, which he promptly chucks at me.
Motion jolts me as I slip the heels back on and buckle my seat belt. The leather is cold against my back. My father settles across from me, his expression unreadable.
“You can’t fight this, Valentina. You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” he says, voice like iron. “The Makarova family won’t tolerate your defiance. Whatever you believe about Anton, he is not as passive as he seems. And if you make too much trouble, Nikolai will not be forgiving.”
I tilt my head, lips curling into a smirk. “Oh, good. Maybe they’ll actually torture me better than you.”
My father chuckles, low and cruel. “You think you’re clever. But Anton will put a child in your belly. That will be the greatest punishment for you.”
The words sink in like a cold blade. I grip my dress so tightly, my knuckles ache. Rage. Fear. Revulsion. They storm through me.
I force a smile. “You really think breeding me like a prize mare is going to break me? Please. I’ve survived worse—like being your daughter.”
Victor opens his mouth to retort.
Then, the world explodes.
The limo spins violently, and I scream from the tires screeching against the pavement as we swerve out of control. The driver shouts before the limo veers, slamming into the guardrail.
Time warps. Glass shatters. The world spins. My body is thrown sideways, then, sudden weightlessness. The sickening sensation of falling.
A crash that should have broken me. Except… it doesn’t.
Something inflates, cushioning the impact. But the force of the airbags still rattles my skull, snapping my head back against the seat.
A white-hot explosion of pain erupts behind my eyes.
For a moment, I can hear the wreckage—groaning metal, the distant blare of horns, my father’s muffled curses—but it all feels far away, as if I’m sinking underwater.
Then, warmth. Strong arms lift me, holding me like I weigh nothing.
My head lolls against something firm, a chest. No, a fortress of marble-like muscle. The scent of smoke, leather, and something darker fills my senses. My lashes flutter, vision swimming, trying to focus on the shape above me.
Too blurry. Just shadows, a golden glint. Like…a mask?
A voice? Maybe.
I can’t tell if it’s real or my mind unraveling.
My lips part, but no words come. The pain is swallowing me whole, dragging me into oblivion.
But before the darkness claims me, one last thought slithers through my mind.
It can’t be much worse than the fate I was heading toward.
Then…nothing.