Chapter 19 #2
When they finally finish, they stand me up, robe falling open for a second before they wrap it tight again, and lead me to the dress waiting on a mannequin in the corner.
White silk, floor-length, fitted through the bodice, modest neckline like he promised, long sleeves that end in lace cuffs.
Beautiful. Expensive. A cage made of fabric.
The makeup artist steps back, tilting her head. “She looks like a princess.”
The hair woman smiles. “She is one. And tonight she becomes his queen.”
I stare at the dress, at my reflection beside it, perfect and polished and empty. My hands are shaking again, red nails catching the light.
They start helping me into it, lacing the back, smoothing the skirt, fastening the diamond choker that sits heavy on my throat like a collar.
And the whole time they keep talking over my head, voices light and bubbly like we’re all in on some fun secret, praising how lucky I am to be marrying Konstantin, how perfect this match is, how he’ll take such good care of me forever with his money and his power and his big strong arms, and I don’t scream, don’t cry, don’t even flinch, I just stand there letting them lace me into the white silk like I’m being dressed for my own execution, mind racing a mile a minute, scanning every inch of the room, every hairpin they slide into my waves, every sharp edge on the vanity mirror, every little crystal bead on the choker that sits like a noose, hunting for something, anything I can use to turn this around and make them bleed instead.
Because I’m not saying I do tonight, not to him, not ever, and if they think a dress this expensive, diamonds this heavy, and their stupid cheerful chatter will make me fold and play the happy bride, they don’t know me at all.
I’m still the girl who shot him once, point-blank under the chin, watched his blood spray, and I’ll do it again in a heartbeat, even if the only weapon I can get my hands on is one of these fucking hairpins.
The women finish the last touches, stepping back to admire their work like I’m a cake they just iced, and I can’t take it anymore.
My voice comes out low, shaking, but I force the words anyway.
“Please. You have to help me. I don’t want this.
He kidnapped me. He drugged me. If you just let me go, just open the door, I can get out before anyone notices. ”
The hair woman pauses with the final spritz of shine serum, then laughs, light and pitying, like I told a bad joke. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re nervous. It’s normal.”
The makeup artist tilts her head, smiling. “Konstantin’s been so patient waiting for you. You’re lucky. Most girls dream of a man like him.”
I step closer, robe slipping off one shoulder, voice cracking. “I’m not dreaming. I’m begging. Please. Just help me.”
The mani-pedi girl straightens up, wiping her hands on a towel. “We’re here to make you beautiful for your wedding. That’s all.” She glances at the others, and they all share the same small, knowing smile. “You’ll thank us later.”
I reach for the hair woman’s arm. “Please. He’ll hurt people I love if I don’t do this. You don’t understand.”
She pulls away gently but firmly, patting my hand like I’m a child. “Everything’s ready. You look perfect.”
They turn as a group, gathering their bags and brushes, chatting about how the dress drapes just right, how the diamonds catch the light. No one looks back. The door clicks shut behind them, lock turning from the outside again, and the room goes silent except for my breathing, harsh and ragged.
I stand there in the white silk, bouquet already on the vanity waiting for me, red roses wrapped in white ribbon, thorns carefully clipped. The room feels smaller now, walls pressing in.
A little while later the door opens again.
Two men this time, big, suited, guns visible on their hips.
No words. One grabs my upper arm, not rough but not gentle, and steers me out.
The other follows close behind, hand resting on his holster.
They march me down a long hallway lined with old portraits, down a wide staircase, out a side door to a waiting black SUV. The engine’s already running.
They load me into the back seat, one on each side so I’m boxed in. The door slams. The driver doesn’t look at me in the rearview. We pull away from the estate, gravel crunching under the tires, and the world outside blurs into trees and gray sky.
They hand me the bouquet when we stop at a red light. I take it automatically, fingers numb around the stems. The thorns are gone but I squeeze anyway, hard enough to feel the pressure.
The SUV turns onto a narrow road that leads to a small stone church, old and beautiful in that cold, historic way. Guards at the entrance. More inside. The men pull me out, one on each elbow, and walk me up the steps like I’m a package being delivered.
Inside it’s dim, candles flickering along the aisle, a handful of people in the pews, family, witnesses, whoever Konstantin trusts to watch this farce. The organ starts, slow and solemn.
They push me forward. I start walking.
I go as slow as I can, dragging each step, heels clicking too loud on the stone floor.
My thoughts are screaming, crashing into each other.
Roman’s face when he wakes up alone, the way he’ll find the house empty and lose his mind.
My father’s voice the last time we talked, gruff and proud, telling me to be strong.
How the fuck did it come to this? One bad meeting, one gunshot, one jet ride, and now I’m walking toward a man who thinks he can own me, wearing a dress that feels like a shroud.
I think about Roman’s hands on me, rough and careful at the same time, the way he says my name like it’s a promise.
I think about my brothers laughing at me when I was little, teaching me how to shoot, how to never back down.
I think about how I almost had a life, real and messy and mine, and now it’s slipping away with every forced step.
The aisle feels endless but it’s not. I reach the end too soon.
Konstantin stands there in a black tux, bandage hidden under his collar, smiling like he’s won everything.
The music stops. The priest clears his throat. And I stand there, bouquet trembling in my hands, heart slamming so hard I can feel it in my teeth, knowing I have seconds, maybe less, before I have to decide how to burn this whole thing down.
The priest steps forward, old and stooped, voice thin and formal as he opens the book in his hands. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
Konstantin stands beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne again, that sharp expensive scent that makes my stomach turn.
He’s looking at me sideways, eyes narrow and dark, lips curved in that small, satisfied smile that says he already won.
He leans in just enough so only I can hear, breath hot against my ear.
“Be good, Anastasiya. Say the words. Smile for the camera. Do what you’re supposed to do, or I make the call.
One text and Roman’s dead before the sun sets.
Then Lucky. Then Blade. Then the whole club. You want their blood on your hands?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s locked tight.
The priest keeps going, oblivious or paid not to notice.
“Konstantin Orlovsky, do you take Anastasiya Dragunov to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
Konstantin’s voice is smooth, loud enough for the room. “I do.”
The priest turns to me, eyes kind but distant.
“Anastasiya Dragunov, do you take Konstantin Orlovsky to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
The words hang there. The church is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat slamming in my ears.
I think about Roman first, the way he looks at me when we’re alone, soft and fierce all at once, the way he never tried to cage me, just stood beside me and let me fight my own fights.
Then Lucky, always cracking jokes at the bar, making sure everyone’s got a beer and a laugh.
Blade, quiet but steady, the one who taught me how to throw a punch without breaking my wrist. Tank, big and loud and protective, treating me like a little sister from day one.
Jenny and Carlie and the other old ladies, pulling me into their group chat, teaching me how to make chili, laughing when I burned the first batch.
The prospects who still blush when I walk by.
The families at cookouts, kids running around the compound, wives and girlfriends swapping stories while the guys grill.
All those good people. Real people. The ones who became my friends, my family, the life I actually wanted instead of this cold polished prison.
They’re all still breathing because I haven’t said no yet.
Konstantin’s hand brushes mine, subtle, a reminder. His eyes flick to his phone in his pocket, then back to me. The threat’s still hanging between us.
I swallow hard. The bouquet shakes in my grip.
The priest clears his throat again. “Miss Dragunov?”
Konstantin leans in one more time, whisper so low it’s almost tender. “Say it. Or they die screaming.”
My vision blurs at the edges, hot tears I refuse to let fall, and I think about Roman one last time, the way he’d look me dead in the eye and tell me to fight, to never fold, to claw my way out no matter what, but also the way he’d understand if I did this, if I said the words to keep him breathing, to keep Lucky cracking jokes and Blade watching everyone’s back and the whole club still standing tomorrow.
I open my mouth, the word sticks thick in my throat like broken glass, but it’s coming anyway because I can’t watch them die, can’t sit here in this white silk while bullets take Roman first, then the others, one by one, all because I said no. Not for me. Not like this.