Chapter Twelve
Liza’s POV
The air in the bedroom suite was thick with the scent of expensive hairspray and lilies.
I sat perfectly still at the heavy mahogany vanity, watching my own reflection.
I was a stranger in the glass. The dark, sharp bob of my hair was slicked back, sophisticated, untouchable.
Isabella stood behind me, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she worked a pin into the thick knot of hair at my neck.
“Hold still,” she murmured, her breath warm against my ear. She was fusing with a massive diamond pin, a brutal, glittering piece of Lobanov jewelry that felt heavy, like a threat.
“I am still,” I replied, my voice steady, betraying none of the internal tremors running through me.
Isabella stepped back, her face softening into a brilliant smile.
She looked at me, taking in the full effect of the dress.
It wasn’t white, of course. White was for innocent girls, and I had been anything but innocent since the moment Roman dragged me into that place.
I had chosen a cream satin gown in the soft light that hugged my curves and pooled beautifully at my feet.
The truly defiant choice, however, was the dramatic, sweeping cape that flowed from the shoulders.
No veil. A veil symbolized surrender. A cape symbolizes armor, concealment.
“It is done,” Isabella announced, running a hand down the heavy satin of my cape. “You’re radiant, Liza. Truly. Like a queen taking her throne.”
I gave her the wry smile I’d perfected for the press, the one that held just the right balance of gratitude and reserved mystery. But the words that left my mouth were dark, low, and just for her.
“Radiant? Maybe. More like a lamb to be slaughtered,” I corrected.
Isabella’s smile faltered, replaced by a flash of genuine worry in her eyes. She knew. She was one of the few people in their entire Bratva nightmare who understood that this was not a fairytale merger but a highly televised execution of my freedom.
The trembling I felt now wasn’t caused by the sight of the diamond pin or the looming thought of walking down that aisle toward Roman. No, the fear had a sharper, more visceral origin. It was the knowledge, cold and certain, that I was no longer fighting for just myself.
I pressed my hand against my satin-covered belly. The missed period, the sudden, debilitating nausea I’d barely managed to hide the last few weeks, the way my heart hammered not just from fear but from a sudden, protective instinct all added up to one terrifying, undeniable truth.
I was pregnant. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I gripped the edge of the vanity, focusing on the rough texture of the wood beneath my fingertips.
One night, one act of volatile, desperate passion born of power struggle, and now this.
A secret I had to guard more fiercely than the hidden flash drive of my father’s evidence.
The strategic calculation was instant and brutal.
I couldn’t tell Roman. Not now, maybe not ever.
If I were just Arkady’s pawn, a temporary hostage, I could eventually escape him.
Marriage would be a complication, yes, but one I could navigate out of.
But if Roman knew I was carrying his child, a Lobanov heir, the rules would change entirely.
The marriage would become ironclad. I would transform instantly, violently, from temporary leverage to permanent, prized property.
He would never let me go. My chance for escape, my chance to finally expose my father and rebuild my life, would vanish forever.
I lifted my chin, the diamond pin glittering under the light. The secret stayed locked inside me. It was my only remaining power, my last shield.
“Ready?” Isabella asked softly, touching my shoulder.
“Almost,” I said, drawing a deep breath. I stared down the frightened reflection and replaced it with the queen of Philanthropy, the woman who knew how to smile while plotting a revolution. I had to keep the secret.
The door to the dressing room eased open, and Emilia slipped in.
She was carrying a huge, extravagant bouquet of white lilies, which instantly filled the already cloying air with their sweet, heavy scent.
Emilia was the softest of the Lobanov wives, the one whose worry was always visible, like a cease in her brow. Today, that worry was deep.
She set the flowers on a small table, her gaze locked on mine in the mirror. She dismissed Isabella with a small, silent nod, and Isabella, sensing the private moment, slipped out.
“Liza,” Emilia started, her voice barely a whisper. She walked toward me slowly. “Look at me.”
I turned, forcing my regal, unreadable mask into place. “Hello, Emilia. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
She didn’t acknowledge the lilies. She took both my hands in hers, her grip gentle but firm, grounding. “You don’t have to go through with this,” she said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation. It was a statement of fact, an offer of a lifeline.
My heart hammered hard against my ribs. I knew what this meant.
Emilia, through Viktor, was offering me the Pakhan’s veto.
The only force in the world powerful enough to stop a Lobanov brother’s wedding on the day it was supposed to happen.
It was a golden escape route, a chance to be pulled out of the fire, safely hidden in a Lobanov bunker until the dust settled.
I raised a single, questioning eyebrow. “Can you actually put a stop to this?”
Emilia met my gaze, her eyes unwavering. “If you want it. If you say the word, Viktor will use his authority. He will end this ceremony right now, before the cars leave the driveway. Roman will be furious, but he cannot go against Viktor’s command. You’ll be safe.”
The temptation was a sharp, sudden ache. Safety, no Roman, no lies, no wedding night interrogation, and no fear that my growing secret would be uncovered.
But when I saw the truth. A public cancellation, a sudden veto from the Pakhan, would not mean freedom.
It would mean a scandal that would tear Roman’s clean empire apart, and it would leave me completely exposed.
I would exchange a public, controlled cage for a messier, private captivity.
I would be hidden away, powerless, waiting for Roman’s anger to cool or for Arkady’s rivals to find me. Either way, I’d lose my ability to act.
No, I needed that stage. I needed the access that only marriage could grant me. The only way to dismantle my father’s empire and secure my own future was to be at the heart of Romans. This was my strategic position.
I straightened my shoulder under the weight of the satin cape, adopting the look of a monarch ready for coronation. “I already am,” I said, my voice clear and ringing. I didn’t tremble. “And I’ll do it looking like a queen.”
I met Emilia’s concerned gaze and shook my head once, slow and deliberate. “Thank you, Emilia, but I want it. I chose this.”
It was the biggest lie I’d ever told, yet it felt like the truth of my resolve. By choosing the path of maximum danger, I was choosing the path of maximum power. The wedding was not the end of my story, but the start of my campaign.
If I wore this mask, if I committed to this role, I could survive. More than that, I could win. My secret, the life beating inside me, made the stakes terrifying, but it also fueled my resolve. I had a small, precious life to protect now, and only the Lobanov walls were thick enough to shield it.
I gave Emilia a small, genuine smile this time. “Don’t worry. Just focus on enjoying the party.”
Emilia, seeing the iron certainty in my eyes, finally let her breath out. She squeezed my hands once more, a final, silent pledge of support, and then she turned to leave, taking the heavy scent of the lilies with her. I was alone, standing at the precipice, fully committed to the plunge.
I was adjusting the gold bracelet on my wrist, a wedding gift from Rome, beautiful and heavy, like a cuff, when it opened again. This time, it wasn’t a friend. It was Stepan Morozov.
He didn’t bother to knock or smile. He just filled the doorway, a block of ice, grey eyes, and a black suit, the very definition of Roman’s absolute control. He was the cold, abrupt voice of the machine that was about to claim me.
“Miss Markova,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “The cars are ready. We are five minutes behind schedule. It’s time to head out.”
Five minutes behind schedule. As if this were a corporate merger and not a forced marriage. His obsession with order was almost comical, if it wasn’t so lethal. I pushed myself up from the vanity chair, the long, heavy satin of the gown feeling like chains.
“Excellent, Stepan,” I replied, giving him a tight, cool smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I hate to keep the press waiting. It only makes them hungrier.”
He didn’t react to my sarcasm. He just nodded and stepped back, his presence marking the undeniable transition.
The privacy of this luxurious suite, my temporary gilded cage, was over.
Now, I was stepping into the public world of the Bratva spectacle.
I was becoming an asset again, a performance piece.
Isabella was instantly at my side. She knew what Stepan represented. As we started the slow, heavy descent down the grand staircase of the mansion, she leaned in close.
“Breath,” she whispered.
I didn’t look at her, keeping my gaze fixed on the marble steps. “I am fine.”
She said nothing, but as we reached the bottom landing, her fingers found my hand beneath the heavy folds of my cape.
She squeezed once, hard, urgent, and silent.
It wasn’t a casual touch. It was a fierce, silent promise of solidarity.
A reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone in this web of black suits and deadly loyalties.
I drew on that physical support. It was a small anchor in the storm that was waiting for me outside. If two of the Lobanov wives were on my side, then maybe, just maybe, I had enough strength to pull this off.
We passed through the security checkpoint in the main hall. The atmosphere changed instantly. Even inside the mansion, I could feel the energy of the world pressing in. We moved toward the main doors, which were guarded by two enormous security details.
The security doors opened, and the sound and lights hit me like a physical wave. It was chaos, meticulously organized. Black SUVs lined the massive driveway. But beyond the stone gate, Fifth Avenue was a wall of noise and flashing lights.
Flashes of light. Hundreds of them, exploding everywhere, white, violent, relentless.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a thick, inhuman noise that even the bulletproof cars couldn’t fully muffle.
Reporters were shouting, screaming my name, Roman’s name, yelling desperate questions about the merger, about Arkady, about the diamond on my hand.
This was a media frenzy. I didn’t flinch, but I kept the royal, cool expression fixed on my face, letting the cape sweep dramatically behind me as I walked the short distance to the waiting car.
I saw the cameras, the lenses, the faces pressed against the wrought iron.
In that moment, the realization solidified, I wasn’t just Liza Markova anymore.
I was a character, a lead in a global spectacle.
I was entering the stage. And the performance had to be flawless. Stepan opened the door to the lead car. I gave the cameras one final, ice-cold smile, the smile of a woman who chose this, and slipped into the luxurious, suffocating darkness of the black seat.
The car door slammed shut, cutting the frantic noise down to a muffled, continuous hum.
The luxurious interior of the car, with its dark leather and soundproofing, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a very expensive, mobile cage.
Isabella sat across from me, her expression still worried.
We didn’t speak because there was nothing left to say.
My gaze drifted down to the heavy satin folds of the cape pooling around my lap. My hands rested there. Hidden, tucked into the thick fabric, was the small, cold metal of the flash drive. My father’s betrayal, tucked securely next to my own. It was my only insurance.
I took an internal inventory of my plan. Composure, checked. The look I had practiced, a serene, powerful grace, was fixed in place. The gown was flawless. The drive was hidden. And everything was ready for the facade.
But below the composure, the new secret pulsed.
This marriage was my ultimate trap. If Roman discovered the pregnancy, I was permanently his.
The thought sent a jolt of ice through my veins, immediately followed by a wave of protective heat.
The life inside me was so tiny, so vulnerable, and yet it was already the heaviest thing I carried.
Yet, this trap was also my only weapon. Marrying Roman gave me access to the Lobanov’s network, their security, and their endless resources.
Only with his machine could I truly trap Arkady and survive the fallout.
The secret baby complicated everything, raising the stakes from revenge to survival, but it didn’t change the mission.
I had to proceed. I had to become Roman Lobanov’s wife.
The car slowed. The muffled roar outside grew louder, deeper.
“We are here, Liza,” Isabella whispered, a warning.
I felt the sudden, crushing halt as the car pulled up to the curb. The door locks clicked open. In the brief second before Stepan pulled the handle, the world outside exploded again, an overwhelming flood of noise and white light.
I had to adopt the public persona instantly.
My hand reached out for Stepan’s steady grip.
I took one last, deep breath, pulling the cloak of royalty over the trembling, pregnant woman inside.
As I stepped out of the car, into the light and the roar, only one thought mattered: if I can keep my mask on through the ceremony, maybe I can survive whatever comes next.