Chapter Seven #3
A laugh escapes me, choked and surprised. It dissolves quickly, replaced by a sting behind my eyes.
I blink hard.
Irina’s expression softens. “You’re okay?”
I look around the room.
At Scottie, laughing so hard at something Trey said that he has to brace a hand on the bar.
At Luka, arguing with Wolf about whether vodka belongs near the wedding cake.
At Peyton and Cammy and Vivi, leaning in close together, their smiles easy, their bodies angled unconsciously toward me like I’m already part of their circle.
Everywhere I look, I see people who chose each other and chose to be here for a fake wedding with a bride that no one knows.
Not because of debt. Not because of alliances. Not because of what they could gain.
Just because they wanted to be here. To support Scottie… to support me.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I think… I think I am.”
For the first time in a long time, the thought of tomorrow doesn’t tighten my throat. The thought of next month, next year—even if I can’t see what they look like yet—doesn’t feel like a sentence.
It feels like a possibility.
I take a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose, effervescent and frivolous.
I let myself hope.
When the toasts finally start up, they are chaotic in the way only unscripted affection and a little… or a lot of alcohol can be.
I can see Shawnie and one of her assistants running around cutting some players off already, and it’s comical.
Juliet goes first, because she earned the right by sheer force of will and event-planning prowess. She stands on a step, raises her glass, and somehow manages to be both funny and sincere in the same thirty seconds.
“To Katerina,” she says. “For being braver than most people I know, and agreeing to marry into this circus. And to Scottie, for having the spine…and the heart, to stand beside her. May immigration be merciful, your grandmother be convinced, and your sex life eventually be incredible.”
The bar explodes. I nearly choke on my drink.
“Too far?” Juliet says mildly when the laughter dies down.
“Not far enough,” Peyton mutters.
Hunter makes a toast that starts with, “I Googled Russian wedding traditions” and goes rapidly downhill from there, involving bread, salt, and a threat to fight anyone who tries to drag me away from this country. By the time he’s done, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Luka’s is the one that undoes me.
He doesn’t stand on anything. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just gets to his feet, holding his glass loosely, looking at me with an expression that makes him look older than he is, and somehow younger too.
“Katerina has always been the better half of our family,” he says simply. “The best half, like our mother was. I couldn’t protect her the way I wanted to when we were young. I can’t be the shield I wish I could be now.”
He swallows.
“But Scottie…” His gaze shifts to him. “He stepped in front of danger without hesitating when he could have called my bluff or told me I was an asshole for tricking him into a bet…”
“Here, here!” Aleksi agrees to the asshole part, raising his glass, and everyone laughs.
Luka mutters a curse in Russian that only I know, and I cover my chuckle before he continues. “… And I know he’ll keep doing it. Keeping her safe when I can’t. So thank you,” he says to Scottie. “For giving my sister a way out.”
The room is very quiet for a moment.
Something hot pricks behind my eyes. I blink hard, but a tear escapes anyway, sliding carefully down the edge of my nose.
Scottie shifts closer, his hand brushing my knee under the table in a small, steadying touch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
The cake cutting is mercifully less emotional.
It’s a small, two-tiered thing with buttercream frosting and simple flowers, clearly thrown together at short notice and somehow perfect for it.
When Scottie’s hand covers mine on the knife, guiding it through the soft layers, I feel that same little jolt in my skin, like my nerve endings are still recalibrating to his touch.
We feed each other small bites, neatly and carefully. No smashing, no frosting in faces. The team boos half-heartedly.
“Cowards,” JP mutters. “You’re supposed to humiliate each other.”
“Maybe we’re doing this part differently,” Scottie says, and his eyes are on me, not the room when he says it.
My stomach flips.
The hours blur in a warm, flickering haze of candles on the tables, music and laughter. Irina already had to leave, so I gave her a tight squeeze before she left, thanking her again for flying out to be here with me.
“Take care of each other,” she said to me and Luka before she left.
Someone starts a drinking game at the bar. Peyton and Cammy run out onto the dance floor when a song they requested comes on. Luka relaxes by degrees, the lines around his mouth easing as he watches me not fall apart.
And then Juliet is clapping again, calling everyone back to the dance floor.
“Alright, people,” she declares. “You’ve eaten, you’ve toasted, you’ve scandalized me with your conversations by the mozzarella sticks. It’s time for the first dance.”
My heart stutters.
Scottie appears in front of me as if Juliet conjured him, hand extended, eyes earnest.
“Will you dance with me?” he asks, as if it’s a true question. As if he wouldn’t force me if I said no. But I want to.
My fingers are steady when I place them in his. “I don’t know… are you a good dancer?” I tease.
He takes my hand in his and helps me out of my chair. “I’m not Juilliard trained, but I think I know enough to spin you around a dance floor successfully without looking like an idiot.”
I let out a laugh as I follow him, hand in hand, to the middle of the dance floor.
He leads me to the center of the makeshift dance floor. The crowd melts back, forming a loose ring around us. The lights seem to dim of their own accord, the fairy lights overhead casting everything in a soft, golden glow.
The music shifts to something slower.
He places one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine. I rest my free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid heat of him through the layers of fabric.
“I think it’s only fair that I warn you,” he says quietly, against my ear. “I might have undersold my dancing ability just now.”
I pull back for just a moment to see that he’s teasing me. “Uh-huh? Is that right?” I ask, playing along.
“Yep. My mom put me in square dancing lessons when I was seven.”
“Oh, did she now?” I try not to laugh, matching his seriousness.
“It’s entirely possible that I might outperform your Juilliard training in front of all of our friends. I just don’t want you to hate me if it goes down like that.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Hate you? No…” I tell him. “Not on our wedding night.”
He huffs a soft laugh and then pulls me closer.
We start to move.
It’s not complicated, just a gentle sway side-to-side in time with the music. No elaborate steps, no choreography—just the simple act of being close and moving together.
He doesn’t step on my toes once. He wasn’t lying, though…he does have rhythm.
His hand on my waist is warm and careful. Our joined hands hang between us, the pads of his fingers calloused against my skin. The faint smell of his cologne, clean with a hint of spice, wraps around me, blending with the scents of candle wax, cake, and the leftover catered dinner.
The room seems to fall away.
“Thank you,” I say, before I can second-guess it.
His brows draw together slightly. “For what?”
“For all of this,” I gesture with our joined hands, the movement small, encompassing orchids and fairy lights and thirty people crammed into a bar for us. “For the wedding. The ring. The roof. For not… making it small so that I can make sure my grandmother believes it.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to see past what I’m saying to what I mean.
“Luke made all of this happen,” he says.
“No… not all of it,” I say. “You didn’t have to do half the things you’ve done.”
“Maybe not.” His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, a small, soothing stroke. “But I wanted to.”
My chest tightens.
Before I can respond, someone taps a spoon against a glass. Then another. Then another. In seconds, the room is filled with the high, chiming clink of metal on crystal.
I startle and glance around the room, unsure of what’s happening.
“What is that?” I ask half-laughing, half-ready to dive for cover.
“American tradition,” he says dryly. “The clinking means they want us to kiss.”
My eyes widen. “Now? In front of everyone?”
“Well,” he says, mouth curving, “we did it once already, but we don’t have to, and I can tell by the look on your brother’s face, he’s about ready to disassemble me if I kiss you again.” Scottie’s eyes glance down at my mouth for a moment and then back into my eyes.
My pulse skips.
Last time, I was in shock. Caught by surprise. Still reeling from vows and diamonds and the weight of my grandmother’s expectations.
This time, I see him lean in. I feel the choice as it approaches.
I make it.
I tilt my face up to his.
He kisses me softer this time… slower. A brush of lips is all it takes. There’s no urgency to it, no audience-conscious performance—just the quiet pressure of his mouth against mine, the faint exhale through his nose, the way his fingers flex at my waist.
I sigh without meaning to; the sound is swallowed between us.
The room around us erupts again, but I barely hear it.
All I know is that somewhere between the rooftop and this dance floor, I need to find the line between fake and real if I’m going to survive him, and keep myself from blurring the lines of what we are, and what we are not.