19. Veronica
19
VERONICA
One week later…
T he suite is a whirlwind of activity—stylists flitting around like hummingbirds.
The room smells of hairspray, and the soft hum of a steamer blends with the faint strains of classical music playing somewhere else in the mansion.
Elena marshals them all like she’s been doing this all her life.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the stranger in the reflection. My bruises have begun to fade. The woman in the mirror looks poised, elegant, and expensive. I don’t recognize her.
“Elena, this dress is a death trap,” I mutter, tugging at the fitted bodice for the tenth time since it imprisoned me. “How am I supposed to breathe, let alone walk down the aisle?”
She raises an amused eyebrow. “Women are supposed to suffer for beauty. It’s a rule.”
I twist to look at her, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, I’ve shaved every part of me that can be shaved apart from my eyebrows. Isn’t that suffering enough?”
“Butthole?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I mean have you shaved around that whole area?”
“I’m not a gorilla, Elena.”
“Of course not. Banana?” She laughs, setting down the clipboard and crossing the room to help adjust the gown. “Look, my lovely Vee. With a body like yours, you could go down the aisle in a hessian sack. Maxim would still combust.”
The mental image makes me snort. “That would solve a lot of problems, wouldn’t it? Just set him on fire right there at the altar.”
Elena bites back a laugh, shaking her head as she fiddles with the train of the dress. “You know, I nearly believe you’d do it.”
“Nearly?” I smirk, lifting my arms so she can smooth the fabric over my hips.
The humor fades as my mind drifts to darker thoughts. The weight of the day settles on my shoulders, and I catch my reflection again. My stomach twists with nerves.
“Elena...” I hesitate, my voice quieter now.
She looks up, her expression softening. “What is it?”
“What if Marco shows up today?” I ask, my words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I know it’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about it. He could ruin everything.”
Elena straightens, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. “Marco can’t touch you now,” she says firmly. “Maxim won’t let him. You’re safe here, Veronica. I promise.”
I nod, forcing a smile, but the knot in my chest doesn’t loosen. “Thanks,” I murmur. “God, I’m nervous. Is that weird? I mean, I know it’s not really real so why am I nervous?”
“Because you both know it means something.” She steps back, giving me an approving once-over. “You look beautiful,” she says with a smile. “Maxim’s not going to know what hit him.”
The scent of roses, lilies, and orchids fills the air. At the end of the room is a set of double doors. On the other side is where it will happen. I will become Maxim’s wife.
I hear the rustle of fabric or the soft shuffle of feet as Victor approaches. His presence is announced not so much by sound but by the sheer weight of his aura. His piercing blue eyes scan me with calculated precision, trying to find a crack somewhere in my facade.
“Miss Bennett,” he says. “I believe this is your moment of glory. Marrying into such wealth must be quite the step up for you.”
“Mr Stepanov.” I nod, forcing a smile that I hope doesn’t look too much like a grimace. “I’m not marrying him for his money.”
He offers me his arm, and though it looks like an act of chivalry, his grip is bruising as soon as my hand touches his. I take his arm anyway, lifting my chin and trying to ignore the cold knot forming in my stomach.
“So why are you marrying him?” As we move toward the towering double doors that lead into the ceremony, he leans down slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“You’re quite the actress,” he says, his tone calm but edged with steel. “But let’s not waste each other’s time. We both know this isn’t real.”
My pulse stumbles, but I keep my expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He lets out a low chuckle, more amused than warm. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Do you think I can’t see through this little charade? My son plucks some nobody from obscurity, and suddenly, he’s madly in love? Convenient timing, don’t you think?”
I stiffen at his words, my nails biting into his arm. “I’m not a nobody.”
“Then who are you, exactly?” He turns his head slightly to look at me, his gaze sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re just a girl Maxim’s hired to play a part. You don’t belong in this world, Miss Bennett. The Bratva is not a game. It’s a legacy, one that matters more than you could possibly understand.”
I bite back the sting of his words and force myself to meet his gaze. “You’re wrong about me.”
He snorts softly. “Am I? Let me explain something to you. This empire—what Peter Ivanov and his family built over generations—it’s not just wealth or power. It’s survival.
“The Bratva protects its own, but only if its leaders are strong. My son’s enemies are circling, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness. If you’re part of that weakness, you’ll get him killed. Is that what you want?”
His words hit like a slap, but I refuse to flinch. “Maxim isn’t weak,” I say firmly. “And neither am I.”
Victor’s lips curl into a faint smirk. “Brave words. But bravery won’t save you when the wolves come knocking.”
“I’m not afraid of wolves,” I snap, the words out before I can stop them.
He pauses, his gaze narrowing as though he’s reevaluating me. “You are a good liar,” he says to himself. “Or telling the truth. Do you love my son?”
“I’m not lying,” I say, looking him right in the eye. “I love Maxim.”
The declaration surprises even me. He stops walking, his piercing gaze locking onto mine.
“Do you really?” he asks, his tone softer but still skeptical.
I lift my chin, holding his gaze. “Yes. I love him. And I’m not going anywhere. You can question me all you want, but the truth will never change.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he nods, though it feels more like an acknowledgment of a battle well-fought than actual approval.
“We’ll see,” he says, his voice neutral again. “For your sake—and his—I hope you’re telling the truth.”
With that, he starts walking again, his grip on my arm a little less bruising.
The double doors open, and the hum of the crowd hits me like a wave. I step into the grand hall, the room buzzing with muted whispers as every head turns toward me.
The crowd is a sea of tailored suits and shimmering gowns, the air thick with the weight of their stares.
I force myself to keep moving, my steps steady even though my heart is pounding.
And then I see him.
Maxim stands at the altar, a dark silhouette against the backdrop of soft candlelight. His suit is gorgeous but it’s his eyes that hold me in place.
They’re dark, intense, and entirely focused on me. It’s a look that feels like a warning, as though he’s daring anyone in the room to so much as breathe wrong in my direction.
He looks like he’d burn the world to the ground just to keep me safe.
The thought sends a strange warmth through me.
Victor releases my arm as we reach the altar, stepping aside without a word.
Maxim stands tall, his gaze fixed on me as though nothing else in the room exists. The weight of his attention presses against my chest, stealing my breath away.
The officiant’s voice cuts through the silence, formal and steady. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Maxim Viktorovich Stepanov and Veronica Bennett in holy matrimony before God.”
As he continues, my nerves churn, but Maxim doesn’t look away. It’s as if he’s silently commanding me to hold steady, to match the strength in his gaze with my own.
“Marriage,” the officiant says, his voice reverent, “is a bond built on trust, respect, and love. It is the foundation of family, the cornerstone of legacy, and the ultimate commitment between two souls.”
Trust. Respect. Love.
The words land heavily in my chest, and I fight the urge to glance at the crowd behind me. They’re watching, waiting, analyzing every move, every expression. Marco could be watching too, somewhere out there in the shadows.
But then Maxim’s hand brushes against mine.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs, so low that only I can hear.
The officiant continues, turning to Maxim. “Maxim, do you take Veronica to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love, honor, and cherish her, in good times and in bad, for as long as you both shall live?”
I hold my breath, my heart hammering. The room is so silent I can hear the faint rustle of fabric as someone shifts in their seat.
Maxim’s voice is firm, carrying an unshakable authority. “I do.”
The simple words send a shiver down my spine.
The officiant turns to me, his expression warm but expectant. “Veronica, do you take Maxim to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love, honor, and cherish him, in good times and in bad, for as long as you both shall live?”
My throat tightens, but I force myself to speak. “I do.”
The words sound stronger than I expect, ringing out clear and steady. Maxim’s lips twitch at the corners, the faintest hint of approval flashing in his eyes.
The officiant gestures to the simple rings resting on a silver tray. My heart pounds as Maxim reaches for mine.
“Rings,” the officiant says, “are a symbol of eternity, an unbroken circle representing the love and commitment shared between two people. By exchanging these rings, you seal the promises made today.”
Maxim steps closer, his gaze locked on mine. His hand dwarfs the delicate band as he picks it up, his fingers brushing mine as he takes my left hand in his.
His grip is steady, firm yet careful, as though he’s afraid of breaking me.
“Veronica,” he begins, his voice intimate, “with this ring, I give you my promise. My protection. My loyalty.” He pauses, his eyes boring into mine. “And all that I am.”
The weight of his words wraps around me like a blanket. My lips part, but no sound escapes.
He slides the ring onto my finger, his touch warm against my skin. The metal feels cool, but as it settles into place, a sense of security washes over me.
This is just pretend, I remind myself, but the pounding of my heart won’t listen.
I reach for his ring with trembling fingers, the band feeling heavier than it should. He extends his hand, his rough palm turned upward, waiting.
“Maxim,” I say, “with this ring, I give you my trust. My respect. And all that I am.”
His jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across his face. I slide the ring onto his finger, the action feeling more intimate than I ever expected. Why does this feel like it might last forever?
The officiant’s voice breaks the spell. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Before I can process the words, Maxim steps closer, his hands settling firmly on my waist. His touch is possessive, claiming, but there’s a gentleness in the way he pulls me toward him.
When his lips meet mine, the world vanishes.
The kiss starts slow but quickly deepens. His hand moves to the small of my back, pulling me closer.
The applause erupts around us, but it’s distant, muffled, like I’m underwater. All I can feel is him—his lips, his hands, the unrelenting intensity of his presence.
When we finally pull apart, his gaze searches mine, dark and burning. My heart stutters as I realize I don’t want to look away.
If this is pretend, I think with anxiety gnawing at me, then why does it feel so real?