Chapter 41 Eva
EVA
Istand before the full-length mirror in my guest room, and the woman staring back at me is a stranger.
The traditional Russian wedding dress transforms me into someone I barely recognize—all white silk and intricate lacework, modest and elegant in a way that honors the heritage Roman and I share.
The bodice hugs my fuller breasts, the pregnancy making them strain slightly against the delicate fabric.
My blonde hair is swept up in an elaborate updo that took Megan an hour to perfect, and my makeup is flawless despite the tears threatening to ruin it.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up as Mrs. Sokolov. The thought makes my stomach clench with emotions I can't untangle—anticipation, terror, desire, resignation. All of it swirling together until I can't breathe properly.
"Hold still," Megan murmurs behind me, her fingers working the last buttons up my spine.
There are dozens of them, tiny pearl buttons that fasten through delicate loops.
Her hands tremble slightly as she works, and I know she's fighting tears.
"Eva, you look absolutely stunning. Like something out of a fairy tale. "
"A Russian fairy tale," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "The kind where the princess marries the monster."
Megan's hands still on my back. "Is that what you think? That Roman's a monster?"
I meet her eyes in the mirror's reflection.
My best friend, my anchor, the person who's seen me at my worst and loved me anyway.
"I think he's complicated. Dangerous. Not always good.
" I press my hand to my stomach beneath the dress's flowing skirt.
"But he protects what's his. And now that includes me and this baby. "
"Do you love him?" The question is soft, almost hesitant.
Do I? I think about Roman's piercing blue eyes, the way they soften when he looks at me despite the cold calculation that usually defines them.
I think about his hands—capable of such violence, yet surprisingly gentle when they touch my skin.
The controlled power in the way he moves, the accent that thickens when he's aroused, the possessive hunger in his gaze when he watches me across a room.
I'm wildly attracted to him. But love? I'm not ready to examine that emotion yet.
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm trying to make this work. For all of us."
My phone rings before Megan can respond, the screen lighting up with a Russian number that makes my chest tight with longing. Babushka Sasha. I answer with shaking hands, switching to FaceTime so she can see me.
Her lined face fills the screen, and the moment she takes in my appearance, tears stream down her weathered cheeks. "Vnuchka," she breathes, her voice thick with emotion. "You look just like your mother on her wedding day. So beautiful, it hurts my heart."
My throat closes with unshed tears. "I wish you could be here, Babushka. I wish you and Mama both could be here."
"I am there, malyshka. In your heart, always." She wipes her face with a trembling hand. "Your mother would be so proud. Not just of how you look, but of your strength. The way you've survived, the way you've protected Alexei and me. You are steel wrapped in silk, just like she was."
The comparison makes my chest ache. I think about my mother, about watching her waste away while insurance companies found creative ways to deny coverage. About the debt that crushed me, that led me to Roman's office, that changed everything.
"Babushka, I'm scared," I whisper, my voice cracking. "What if I'm making a mistake? What if—"
"Listen to me." Her voice becomes firm, the tone she used when I was a child and needed guidance.
"Love grows where respect is planted. Your Roman, he is a hard man, da?
But he respects you. I see it in the way he speaks of you, the way he's protected our family.
Give him your loyalty, vnuchka, and demand his in return. That is how marriages survive."
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
We talk for a few more minutes, her voice washing over me with old Russian wisdom about marriage, strength, and the importance of standing firm even when you're terrified.
When we finally say goodbye, I'm crying openly, and Megan has to repair my makeup with gentle efficiency.
The door bursts open without warning, and Alexei stands frozen in the doorway. His sixteen-year-old face is stunned into silence, his blue eyes wide with shock. He's wearing a suit that Roman bought him, expensive and perfectly tailored, and he looks so grown up, it makes my heart ache.
"Eva," he breathes, his voice cracking. "You look just like Mama."
The words break something in my chest. I open my arms, and he crosses the room in three strides, pulling me into a careful embrace that's mindful of my dress. His shoulders shake with silent sobs, and I hold him tighter, this boy I've sacrificed everything to protect.
"She'd be so proud of you," I whisper against his blond hair. "Of the man you're becoming. Of your brilliance, your kindness, your strength."
"I miss her." His voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Every day, I miss her. And I'm so scared of losing you too."
"You're not losing me." I pull back, cupping his face with both hands. "I'm just gaining a husband. You're still my little brother. That will never change."
Alexei's throat works as he swallows. "Do you love him? Roman?"
That question again.
"I'm trying to," I say honestly. "He's not an easy man to love. But I'm trying."
Alexei nods, seeming to accept this. We talk about our mother for a few more minutes, sharing memories that make us both laugh and cry.
How she used to sing while she cooked, those old folk songs her grandmother taught her.
The way she'd braid my hair before school, her fingers gentle and patient.
How she believed in America as the land of opportunity, even as it destroyed her with medical debt.
"She'd want you to be happy," Alexei finally says. "Whatever that looks like. Even if it's with a dangerous man who keeps people prisoner in his basement."
The observation is so blunt, so typically Alexei, that I laugh despite everything. "He released Tyler. And you. And Megan."
"With security details following us everywhere." But Alexei's smile is genuine, teasing. "At least the guards Roman assigned to me are teaching me self-defense. That's pretty cool."
A soft knock interrupts our moment. The door opens to reveal Irina Titova, elegant in a designer dress. Her dark hair is swept up in a sophisticated chignon, and her green eyes assess me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Eva, you look beautiful," she says, her voice perfectly modulated. But I remember Katya's warning from last night, the concern in her blue eyes when she told me to be careful. That's not simple dislike. That's hatred.
"Thank you." I keep my voice polite, professional, even though my skin prickles with unease.
Irina holds out a small wrapped box, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "A gift. For luck. Something borrowed, as the Americans say."
I unwrap it with careful fingers to find a delicate hair comb, antique and beautiful. The silver is tarnished with age, and tiny pearls are set into the intricate design. It's the kind of heirloom that should mean something, that should carry history and significance.
"It's lovely," I say, turning it over in my hands. "But I can't accept something so valuable—"
"I insist." Irina moves closer, her fingers already reaching for the comb. "Let me place it in your hair. It will be perfect with your updo."
Before I can protest, her hands are in my hair, working the comb into place with quick, efficient movements. Her fingers brush against my scalp, and I catch a whiff of her perfume—something expensive and cloying that makes my stomach turn slightly. She steps back, admiring her work in the mirror.
"Perfect," she says, her green eyes meeting mine in the reflection. "Absolutely perfect."
There's something in her tone that makes my skin crawl, but I force a smile. "Thank you."
Irina leaves as quickly as she arrived, and I'm left staring at my reflection, at the antique comb glinting in my blonde hair. Megan frowns slightly, her hand reaching up to touch it.
"That was weird," she says quietly. "Why would she give you something so personal?"
Before I can answer, another knock echoes through the room. This one is firmer, more authoritative. Lev Baranov stands in the doorway, imposing in his dark suit, his expression professionally neutral.
"It's time," he says, his voice low and controlled.
My stomach drops to my feet. I'd wanted Alexei to walk me down the aisle, to have my brother give me away in the traditional sense.
But Roman had insisted on Lev for security reasons, and I'd been too exhausted to fight about it.
Now, looking at Lev's hard expression, I understand why Roman made that choice.
Lev is a weapon disguised as a man, and having him at my side sends a message to anyone watching. Eva Sokolov is protected.
Alexei kisses my cheek and disappears to take his seat. Megan fusses with my dress one final time, then follows him out. And then it's just Lev and me, standing in the guest room that's been my sanctuary for weeks.
"You look beautiful," Lev says, and the compliment surprises me coming from him. "Roman is a lucky man."
"Is he?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Or am I the lucky one, being forced to marry a Pakhan to save my family?"
Lev's dark eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. "You're both lucky. And both trapped. That's what makes this interesting."
He offers his arm, and I take it with hands that won't quite stop trembling.
We process through the estate's marble halls, my heels clicking against the expensive floors, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Through the windows, I catch glimpses of the garden where the ceremony will take place—white roses everywhere, guests seated in neat rows, the string quartet playing something classical and beautiful.
The November air hits me when we step outside, crisp and cold despite the bright sunshine. I'm grateful for the long sleeves of my dress, for the way the fabric shields me from the chill. Lev's arm is steady beneath my hand, his presence solid and reassuring despite everything.
The music shifts, signaling my entrance.
Lev guides me toward the rose-lined aisle, and I see Roman waiting at the altar.
Even from this distance, he's devastating in his black suit, his broad shoulders filling out the tailored fabric in ways that make my mouth go dry.
His blue eyes find mine across the garden, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch.
He wants me. I can see it in the way his gaze drops to my breasts, then lower, cataloging every detail of my appearance. Even now, even surrounded by witnesses, his desire is palpable. My nipples tighten beneath the dress's bodice, and I see his jaw clench with restraint.
I take my first step down the aisle, and all eyes turn toward me.
I see Megan and Katya standing as bridesmaids, both of them crying openly.
I see Alexei in the front row, his face a mixture of pride and concern.
I see David Brennan, Roman's lawyer, his expression professionally neutral behind his titanium-framed glasses.
And then I see them. Three men in expensive suits, seated prominently in the third row.
Their faces are unfamiliar, but something about the way they watch—calculating, assessing, missing nothing—makes my stomach clench with dread.
These aren't normal wedding guests. These are men who've come to judge, to evaluate, to determine something important.
The Moscow delegates. They have to be.
I force myself to keep walking, to maintain my composure despite the fear flooding my system. One step. Another. The aisle feels impossibly long, and Roman's blue eyes never leave mine.
I'm halfway down the aisle when I feel it.
A sudden loosening at my back, like something has come undone.
The dress's intricate lacework begins separating at the seams, threads unraveling with horrifying speed.
I feel the bodice start to gape, feel cool air against my spine where the fabric is pulling apart.
The buttons. The dozens of tiny pearl buttons Megan fastened so carefully. They're coming undone, one after another, the dress literally falling apart around me with each step I take.