Chapter 7 – Valeria #2
“I like this one. I want it.”
Matteo frowns immediately. “Oh, no, that’s not how it works. You haven’t tried the rest.”
I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “But does it matter? I already like this one. No need to try more and get confused.”
“I’m here. You won’t get confused,” he says smoothly, already reaching for the next garment bag like my opinion means absolutely nothing.
I open my mouth to argue.
A gentle knock cuts me off.
“Come in.”
My breath hitches as I turn toward the door.
For some reason, I want it to be him.
I want Timofey to walk in and see me like this.
The thought alone sends heat crawling up my skin, settling low in my stomach before I can stop it.
But when the door opens, it’s not him.
Just a maid.
She steps in quietly, carrying a tray, her movements soft and careful. I’ve seen her around before—one of the few who actually smiles when she sees me. The others…they’re polite, respectful, but very distant.
Like I’m already something they’re not allowed to touch.
“If I dare say so myself, Miss Petrova, you look absolutely divine,” the maid says.
Matteo claps his hands in delight. “We said the same thing!”
I smile faintly, the compliment warming something small inside me.
“Thank you.”
She sets the tray down gently on the table, the faint scent of tea drifting into the room, calming, grounding.
“I brought you tea pending when breakfast will be ready. Enjoy, ma’am.”
She bows slightly and turns to leave.
“Thank you,” I say again, softer this time. “What’s your name?”
“Elena.”
“Thank you, Elena.”
She nods and disappears, the door clicking shut behind her.
The room falls quiet for a moment.
Then Matteo exhales dramatically. “See? Even the staff agrees with me. This is a moment.”
I huff a laugh, but my attention drifts back to the mirror.
Back to myself.
Back to the girl in the dress.
My fingers trace the edge of the fabric again, slower this time.
Thoughtful.
Because beneath the beauty, there’s purpose.
There’s calculation.
There’s war.
I lift my gaze, meeting my own reflection.
Two days.
Two days to transform from a hunted girl into something untouchable.
Soon, I try all four dresses.
Matteo insists on it, hovering, adjusting, commenting dramatically on every single detail like the fate of the world depends on lace and stitching.
“This one says innocent bride, which you are clearly not—no offense.”
I swat his arm. “Oh, stop it!”
By the time we circle back to the first dress, I already know.
I don’t even need to look in the mirror again.
It’s mine.
“There’s just something about it,” I say, smoothing my hands over the fabric.
Matteo watches me for a long second…then nods slowly.
“Yes,” he agrees. “That one is you.”
We move on to fittings, measurements, adjustments—him talking a mile a minute about veils, shoes, accessories, things I barely register because my mind is already ten steps ahead—when there’s another knock on the door.
I turn.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and Misha steps in.
His presence alone shifts the air. Less light. More…real.
“Miss Petrova,” he says evenly, “there’s someone outside looking for you.”
I frown.
What?
Who could possibly be looking for me?
“I don’t—who?”
He pauses, studying me for half a second.
“Says her name is Sofia Morozova.”
Everything in me stills.
Then snaps.
“Sofia?” I shoot to my feet so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “That’s my best friend—”
I’m already moving toward the door when Misha lifts a hand, stopping me.
“I’ll bring her to you,” he says calmly. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
He steps out before I can argue.
The door shuts.
And for a second, I just stand there.
Then—
I squeal.
The sound bursts out of me, uncontrollable, disbelieving—
But it fades just as quickly as it comes.
Because the realization hits.
Sofia is here.
Here.
In America.
Which means she left.
She left Moscow.
Her home.
Her family.
For me.
My chest tightens.
Why?
I’ve tried texting her. Calling her. Nothing ever went through. I thought—
I thought maybe—
No.
I don’t finish that thought.
The door opens again.
And there she is.
Sofia.
She looks different—tired, a little worn, worry etched into her face—but still her. Relief crashes into them so hard it almost knocks the breath out of me.
“Valeria—”
I don’t let her finish.
I launch myself at her.
She catches me instantly, arms wrapping tight around me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she loosens her grip.
And just like that, everything breaks.
The strength.
The control.
The careful walls I’ve been building since that night.
We both start crying.
Not quiet tears.
Not controlled.
Ugly, desperate, overwhelming sobs.
I bury my face in her shoulder, gripping her like she’s the only real thing left in my world.
“You’re here,” I choke. “You’re actually here—”
“Of course I am,” she cries back, holding me tighter.
“Valeria, everything is a mess. I barely left Moscow alive. Anton came after me—after my family—and we had to flee. I had to come to America to stay with relatives. I arrived yesterday…and I knew I had to find you today. My relatives told me you were now with Timofey Rusnak.”
“Everyone knows?”
She nods. “Everyone knows. The Rusnaks are very popular and powerful. It’s in everyone’s best interest to keep up with them.”
That does it.
Something inside me cracks open all over again.
My breath stutters as I pull her closer, like if I let go even slightly, she’ll vanish.
We sink down onto the bed together, still clinging to each other, neither of us willing to break the contact. Her tears soak into my shoulder, mine into hers, and for a moment there’s no mansion, no wedding, no Timofey, no strategy.
Just us.
Just survival.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Sofia…. This is my fault. If I hadn’t—if I didn’t—your family—”
“Stop.”
Her voice is firm, even through tears. She pulls back just enough to hold my face in her hands.
“Don’t you dare do that,” she says, shaking her head. “This isn’t you.”
My throat tightens. “But Anton—he’s after me. Because of me—”
“No,” she cuts in again, sharper now. “It’s Anton.”
Her thumbs wipe at my tears, grounding me even as my chest shakes.
“This is him. This is what he does. He destroys anything he can’t control.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s useless.
Sofia lets out a shaky breath, then continues, softer this time but no less certain.
“And someone has to stop him.”
The words hang in the air between us.
“I’m trying,” I cry. “I’ve tried to enlist Timofey’s help.”
Sofia pulls back slightly, searching my face. “How?”
I sniff, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. My voice comes out broken, uneven.
“The wedding.”
She blinks. “The…wedding?”
I nod, though it feels heavier than it should.
“It wasn’t just—” I pause, swallowing again. “It wasn’t just desperation, Sof. It’s strategy.”
Her grip on my hands tightens. She doesn’t interrupt now. Just listens.
I take a shaky breath. “Anton doesn’t stop. Not unless someone stronger forces him to.”
My voice drops, quieter, more controlled now—the part of me that learned how to survive.
“So I needed protection. Real protection. Not temporary, not political favors. Something he can’t easily undo.”
Sofia’s eyes flicker, understanding beginning to form, though she doesn’t speak yet.
I continue anyway.
“Timofey Rusnak doesn’t do things halfway. If I’m tied to him—officially—Anton can’t just reach me. He can’t just take me. He’ll have to go through an entire structure he can’t touch.”
My throat tightens again, but I force myself to keep going.
“And if it works…” I whisper, “if I can secure that position long enough…if there’s an heir….”
Sofia’s breath catches slightly.
I look down at my hands.
“…then there’s something left of my father’s legacy that Anton can’t erase.”
Silence follows.
Not empty.
Heavy with everything I’m not saying.
That it’s not romantic.
That it might never be.
That I don’t even fully know what Timofey will become in all this yet.
Sofia finally speaks, her voice softer now. “Valeria…that’s not a marriage. That’s a battlefield.”
I let out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“That’s my life.”
There’s movement beside me.
Only then do I realize Matteo is still in the room.
He clears his throat gently, suddenly far less theatrical than before.
“Valeria,” he says, “sorry to interrupt. Can you please take off the dress you have on? I’ll go make the necessary adjustments and give you time to talk to your friend. I’ll be back later.”
Oh.
I didn’t even realize he was still here while I said all that.
Heat flickers across my face. “Of course.”
Matteo gives me a softer look than I expect—no teasing, no drama this time. Just understanding. I smile at him.
Sofia exhales slowly and moves immediately to help me out of the dress. Her fingers are careful, practiced in a way that feels grounding. Together, we work the fabric free, easing it off layer by layer until it pools gently onto the bed like something fragile and expensive.
Once it’s off, I let out a breath. Matteo stuffs it back in the garment bag, gives a small wave, and steps out, closing the door quietly behind him.
The silence he leaves behind feels different. More intimate.
Sofia and I sit back down on the bed again.
Closer this time.
Sofia studies my face for a long moment, her expression shifting between concern and something heavier—fear, maybe, or realization.
“You really did it,” she says quietly.
I let out a small, tired breath. “I had to.”
She shakes her head slowly, like she’s still trying to process it all. “Marrying Timofey Rusnak….”
Her voice trails off.
I don’t fill the silence.
Because there’s nothing simple to say.
Sofia reaches for my hand again, gripping it tightly.
“You’re sure this is the only way?” she asks.
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then I nod.
“It’s the only way I can keep everything from disappearing completely,” I answer. “I must take back my father’s throne, even if it’s the last thing I do.”