Chapter 7 – Valeria
I wake expecting silence.
Awkwardness.
Maybe even avoidance after what happened last night.
Instead, I step out of my room that morning and walk straight into chaos.
The house is… unrecognizable.
Staff rush through the halls carrying bolts of fabric, trays of flowers, boxes of decorations. Voices overlap, orders are barked, security tries—and fails—to keep the flow organized. It feels like I’ve stepped into the middle of something already in motion. Something big.
I stop in the hallway, completely still, trying to make sense of it.
“What’s going on?” I ask no one in particular.
No one answers. They’re too busy moving, preparing, working.
It takes a few minutes—watching, listening, piecing it together—for the realization to settle in.
Timofey accepted.
The marriage.
My chest tightens, not with panic, but with something sharper. Something more dangerous.
This is happening.
Fast. Too fast.
I don’t know why he agreed. Whether it’s strategy, pressure from Mike, or…last night.
But the reason doesn’t matter.
What matters is this: Preparations are already underway.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to steady. This is what I wanted. What I needed.
So why does it feel like I’ve just stepped onto a battlefield I can’t fully see?
A woman brushes past me with a rack of dresses, muttering under her breath. Another follows with shoes, fabrics draped over her arms like a moving display.
“Wait,” I say, stopping her. “What is all this?”
She blinks at me like the answer should be obvious.
“For the wedding, miss.”
The wedding.
I release her, watching as she hurries off, and for a moment, I just stand there.
Then I straighten my shoulders.
Fine.
If this is happening, then I will not stand here like a spectator.
I will control it.
“Miss Petrova! Or should I say, Miss Rusnak!”
I turn at the voice just in time to see a whirlwind of energy barreling toward me, arms full of garment bags. He’s striking—tall, elegant, with an almost ethereal beauty. His nails are long, painted a deep red, and his makeup is flawless, accentuating sharp, expressive features.
Before I can react, he pulls me into a hug.
I stiffen for half a second, then relax.
He pulls back just as quickly, eyes sweeping over me from head to toe, assessing. Not predatory. Not invasive. Just…professional.
“You have a wonderful figure,” he says, already nodding to himself. “I can’t wait to see how these dresses will fit. Is this your room?”
“Yes,” I reply, a little thrown by his energy. It’s bright. Alive. A stark contrast to the tension coiled through the rest of this house.
“Perfect!”
He doesn’t wait for permission. He simply turns, already moving, expecting me to follow.
I do.
He sweeps into my room like he owns it, dropping the garment bags carefully across the bed before turning back to me with a wide smile.
“I’m Matteo,” he says with a slight flourish. “Your designer. Personally hired by the terrifying man you’re about to marry.”
There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Which means,” he continues, clapping his hands once, “you and I are going to become very close over the next few days.”
I arch a brow, folding my arms. “Days?”
He pauses. Blinks. Then laughs.
“Oh, darling…did no one tell you?”
Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten slightly.
“This isn’t just a wedding,” Matteo says, lowering his voice like he’s letting me in on a secret. “It’s a statement.”
Of course it is.
I should have expected that.
He turns back to the dresses, already unzipping one of the garment bags.
“And statements,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder at me with a knowing smile, “require perfection.”
I step further into the room, watching him work, my mind already shifting gears.
If this wedding is a statement, then I need to make sure it says exactly what I want it to.
“Can I see what wedding dress options I have?”
“Oh, honey, yes—that’s why I’m here,” he says, clicking his long fingers together in a gesture so dramatic it pulls a small laugh out of me.
Within minutes, Matteo fills the room completely.
Energy. Movement. Presence.
He opens the four garment bags with practiced precision, spreading the dresses across the bed like they’re pieces of art meant to be admired.
And they are.
I gasp before I can stop myself.
Each dress is exquisite in its own way—intricate lace, structured silk, delicate beadwork that catches the light with every movement. They’re not just beautiful. They’re powerful. Designed to command attention.
For a moment, I just stare.
Then I exhale. “I…I don’t know how to choose.”
The admission feels strange on my tongue.
“I’ve never had to do this myself,” I add, shaking my head slightly. “Back in Moscow, I had a stylist. They handled everything.”
Matteo scoffs like I’ve just said something ridiculous.
“This is America, baby,” he says, placing a hand dramatically against his chest. “And I’m your new personal stylist and designer.”
He gestures around the room like he owns it.
“Not only am I handling your wedding, but your husband has also already cleared a personal space for me in the building as a studio. I’ll be planning all your public appearances from now on.”
I blink.
“Wow.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
I hum softly, my gaze drifting back to the dresses.
Who knew Timofey thought that far ahead?
“Now this one.” Matteo lifts the first dress carefully, like it’s something sacred.
He holds it up against me, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Structured bodice, silk Mikado, very clean lines. This is power. This is don’t underestimate me, or you’ll regret it.”
He circles me once, assessing. “It’s classic, but not soft. You walk into a room in this, and people won’t see a bride. They’ll see a queen taking her throne.”
Something in my chest tightens at that.
He sets it aside and reaches for the second one.
“This one…” he breathes, almost reverently, lifting it with a softer touch. “This is more playful. Less intimidating, more…seductive.”
He smooths the fabric, letting it fall in soft waves. “Look at this—delicate lace, a softer silhouette that moves when you walk. It says I’m dangerous, but I’ll let you come close enough to find out.”
He glances at me with a knowing smile. “This one doesn’t command. It invites.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head.
He grins, pleased, and moves on.
“The third….” He lifts it with a dramatic flourish. “Ah, this one is drama. Full skirt, intricate detailing, a train that demands attention.”
He steps back, admiring it. “This is legacy. This is history. You wear this, and you’re not just a bride—you’re a dynasty. Old power. Unshakable. Untouchable.”
My fingers brush lightly over the fabric before I even realize what I’m doing.
“And finally….” Matteo turns to the last dress, his expression shifting into something almost mischievous.
“This one is my favorite.”
He lifts it slowly, letting the light catch on it.
“Sleek. Fitted. Minimal…but devastating.” He looks at me, eyes sharp. “This is the kind of dress that doesn’t need to scream. It whispers—and everyone listens anyway.”
He tilts his head. “This is danger in its most refined form. Controlled. Elegant. Deadly.”
Silence settles for a moment as all four dresses lie before me, each one telling a different story.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Then, unexpectedly, I laugh.
It’s soft at first, then fuller, surprising even me.
Matteo beams like he’s just accomplished something monumental.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, I feel just a little bit like myself again.
I like Matteo. I think he’ll be the burst of fresh air I need in the midst of my chaos.
I glance up at him. “You can call me Valeria.”
He grins. “You got it, Val.”
My eyes widen before another burst of laughter leaves me. “You’re insufferable.”
“So some people say.” Matteo grabs the first dress and hands it over to me. “Here. Try this on. We have to hurry; the wedding is in two days.”
I gasp. “Two days?”
“You didn’t know?” Matteo shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m not even surprised. This is the Rusnaks we’re talking about. Quick, try this one.”
I take the dress begrudgingly, still stuck on his words.
Two days.
Why is he even in such a hurry?
Last night, Timofey looked like he would rather set the entire house on fire than agree to marry me. Now suddenly, there’s a deadline?
Something about that annoys me. How could he make such an important decision without talking to me about it?
But I push the thought aside, for now. Survival first. Questions later.
Matteo is with me in seconds, his practiced hands moving with precision as he helps me into the dress. Fabric slides over my skin, cool and expensive, settling into place like it already belongs to me.
“Arms up—yes, like that,” he mutters, circling me.
His fingers fly over the dress—cinching the bodice tighter, adjusting the shoulders, smoothing invisible creases, tugging here and there until everything aligns perfectly.
He steps back.
Then forward again.
Then back once more.
A perfectionist.
Finally, he stills.
“Well?” he demands, eyes sharp, expectant.
I turn toward the mirror.
And my breath catches.
The dress fits like it was made for me. The bodice is structured, hugging my torso with elegant restraint, while the rest falls in soft, controlled lines that move when I do—but never too much. It doesn’t overwhelm me.
It sharpens me.
Elevates me.
Transforms me.
I look…powerful.
Not like a girl running for her life.
Not like someone who lost everything in a single night.
I look like someone stepping into something bigger.
Something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
“…I look divine,” I murmur, almost to myself.
Matteo claps once, delighted. “Yes, you do! Say it louder for the enemies in the back!”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, softer this time.
Real.
I run my hands lightly down the fabric, grounding myself in the moment.
For a second—just a second—I forget the blood, the betrayal, the gunshots.
But only for a second.
Because reality settles back in just as quickly.
For now, I’m just a beautiful girl in a beautiful dress.