Chapter 8 – Maxim
The knock on my office door came at exactly seven in the morning. Punctual, just like everything else about Eleanor. I’d been expecting this conversation since I’d left her room three hours ago, my skin still burning with the memory of her touch.
She walked in wearing one of Anya’s borrowed dresses, her hair pulled back in that high ponytail that made my fingers itch. But it was her eyes that stopped me cold. No fear, no resignation. Just pure, undiluted determination.
“I have conditions,” she said without preamble, settling into the chair across from my desk like she was negotiating a business deal instead of the terms of her captivity.
“Of course you do.”
“I want a real wedding dress. Designer. Something that costs more than most people’s cars.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying her face for signs of what game she was playing. “Any particular reason?”
“If I’m going to be your wife, even temporarily, I’m going to look fucking spectacular doing it. I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me look like a victim.”
Smart. Image was everything in our world, and she understood that instinctively. A woman who looked defeated would make me appear weak. But a woman who looked like a queen choosing her king? That sent a very different message.
“Done. What else?”
“I want one person on my side at the ceremony. Someone who actually gives a shit about me.”
“Who?”
“Zara.”
I thought about the blonde spitfire who’d walked into my office yesterday, all sharp edges and protective fury. Having her there would be a risk, but Eleanor was right. She needed an ally, someone to stand with her when she took my name.
“I’ll make the call.”
“Thank you.”
She stood to leave, then paused at the door. “Maxim?”
“Yeah?”
“This marriage might be fake to you, but it’s real to me. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
The door closed behind her before I could respond, leaving me staring at empty space and wondering what the fuck I’d gotten myself into.
***
An hour later, I found Anya in her studio, sketching designs on her tablet. She looked up when I walked in, one eyebrow raised in question.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“Let me guess. This has something to do with your hostage bride.”
“She wants a wedding dress. Designer quality. We have seventy-two hours.”
Anya set down her tablet and gaped at me. “Семьдесят два часа? Ты охуел?” Seventy-two hours? Have you lost your fucking mind?
“Can you do it or not?”
She was quiet for a long moment, her artist’s brain probably calculating measurements and fabric requirements and the sheer impossibility of what I was asking.
“What’s her style?” she asked finally.
“I have no fucking clue.”
“Helpful.” Anya rubbed her temples like I was giving her a migraine. “I’ll need to see her. Take measurements, get a sense of what she wants.”
“Whatever you need.”
“This is insane. You know that, right? Even for you, this is completely fucking insane.”
I didn’t argue because she was right. Everything about this situation had spiraled beyond any reasonable plan. But I was too far in now to back out.
“Just make her look beautiful, Anya.”
My sister studied my face with the kind of uncomfortable intensity that came from growing up together, from knowing each other’s tells and weaknesses.
“She already is beautiful,” she said quietly. “The question is why you care.”
I left without answering because I didn’t have one she’d believe. Hell, I didn’t have one I believed myself.
The next day, the call to Zara went about as well as expected.
“You want me to what ?” Her voice crackled through the phone, sharp with disbelief.
“Attend a wedding. Eleanor specifically requested you.”
“Her wedding to the psychopath who kidnapped her? Gee, I wonder why she’d want emotional support for that.”
“One hour. That’s all I’m asking. You show up, stand with her, and leave when it’s over.”
“And if I refuse?”
This was the part I hated. The part that made me exactly the kind of monster Eleanor had called me. But I’d come too far to let conscience stop me now.
“Then you won’t see your family again. Your mother in Tucson, your brother in San Diego, that niece you’re so fond of. They’ll disappear, and you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if they’re alive or dead.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what I’d just threatened. When she spoke again, her voice was ice.
“You’re a fucking animal.”
“I’m a man who gets what he wants. The location will be sent to you tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
I ended the call before she could respond, already hating myself for the words I’d just spoken. Threatening innocents wasn’t my style, but Eleanor had asked for her friend, and I’d promised to deliver.
***
The next morning, Rafael called.
“Heard you’re getting married,” he said without preamble. “Congratulations, I think?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is with you. Want to explain why I’m hearing about this from Cassandra instead of my second-in-command?”
I gave him the abbreviated version. The failed kidnapping, William’s disavowal, the marriage plan. He listened without interruption, which meant he was either very interested or planning my funeral.
“Clever,” he said when I finished. “Risky as fuck, but clever. When’s the ceremony?”
“Today. Three o’clock.”
“Where?”
“The old chapel. In the woods behind the house.”
Another silence. Rafael knew about the chapel, had been there for my parents’ memorial service years ago. It was sacred ground for the Voronov family, the place where we’d said goodbye to everyone we’d lost.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
“I’ll be there.”
The chapel hadn’t been used in five years, not since we’d laid my parents to rest. Stone walls covered in ivy, stained glass windows that threw colored light across weathered pews. It smelled like old wood and forgotten prayers.
Lev had cleaned it up, swept away the dust and dead leaves, and arranged flowers that Anya had somehow procured on short notice. It looked almost peaceful, which felt like a lie considering what we were really doing here.
“Nervous?” Lev asked, adjusting his tie in the reflection of a cracked mirror.
“Should I be?”
“You’re about to marry a woman you kidnapped. Most people would call that complicated.”
I checked my watch. Two fifty-five. Where the fuck was Rafael?
The sound of car doors slamming echoed through the trees, and I saw Cassandra leading Zara up the path. The PR specialist looked like she wanted to burn the whole place down, but she was here. That was what mattered.
Another car. Rafael stepping out, straightening his jacket with the kind of calm precision that made him dangerous. He caught my eye through the window and nodded once.
“Showtime,” Lev muttered.
I took my position at the altar, hands clasped behind my back to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. This was just another job, another step in a plan that would destroy William Beaumont. It didn’t matter that my pulse was racing or that my mouth had gone dry.
The chapel doors opened.
Eleanor stepped into the doorway, and every rational thought in my head evaporated.
The dress Anya had created was a masterpiece. Ivory silk that hugged Eleanor’s curves before flowing into a train that seemed to float behind her. Intricate beadwork that caught the colored light from the stained glass windows. A neckline that was modest and seductive all at once.
But it wasn’t the dress that stopped my breath.
It was her.
She walked down the aisle with her chin up, shoulders back, every step radiating the kind of quiet confidence that commanded attention. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, a few loose strands framing her face. She wore no veil, nothing to hide behind.
This wasn’t a woman being led to slaughter. This was a queen claiming her throne.
Our eyes met halfway down the aisle, and I saw something in her gaze that made my chest tight. Not defeat or resignation, but a kind of fierce determination that matched my own.
She’d made her choice. Just like I’d made mine.
The officiant was one of Rafael’s contacts, a man who asked no questions and kept his mouth shut. The words washed over me in a blur of legal terminology and traditional vows that felt anything but traditional.
“Do you, Maxim Voronov, take Eleanor Beaumont to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” The words came out rougher than I’d intended, heavy with implications I wasn’t ready to examine.
“Do you, Eleanor Beaumont, take Maxim Voronov to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She looked directly at me when she answered, her voice clear and strong. “I do.”
“You may kiss the bride.”
This was the moment I’d been dreading. The moment when the performance would become reality, when the legal contract would be sealed with something that felt dangerously close to truth.
I stepped closer, one hand coming up to cup her face. Her skin was warm, soft, and I could feel her pulse racing under my fingertips.
Our lips met, and for a split second, the world disappeared. No chapel, no witnesses, no revenge plot. Just Eleanor and me, and the electric current that seemed to run between us whenever we touched.
She pulled away almost immediately, her eyes wide with something that looked like panic. I knew why she’d done it, could read the fear in her expression as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud.
She was afraid that if she let the kiss continue, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Afraid that whatever was building between us would consume them both.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, and before I could stop myself, I was laughing. Really laughing, the kind of deep, genuine sound I hadn’t made in years.
Eleanor stared at me like I’d lost my mind, and maybe I had. Maybe this whole situation had finally pushed me over the edge I’d been walking since Prague.
But God help me, I was happy. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt something other than rage and emptiness.
I looked out at our small audience. Anya watching with barely concealed worry. Lev grinning like this was the best entertainment he’d seen in months. Cassandra taking notes like she was planning to bill me for her time. Zara looking like she wanted to stab me with the decorative flowers.
And Rafael, standing in the back with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Approval, maybe. Or concern about what his second-in-command was becoming.
They were all staring at me, at us, and I realized they could see it. The change that Eleanor had wrought in me, the crack she’d put in armor I’d spent years building.
She’d gotten under my skin, past every defense I’d constructed. And somehow, impossibly, I didn’t mind.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officiant said, “I present Mr. and Mrs. Voronov.”
Mrs. Voronov. Eleanor was my wife now, legally and officially. The plan was working exactly as I’d intended.
I offered Eleanor my arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. We walked back down the aisle together, husband and wife, predator and prey, though I was no longer certain which of us was which.
Outside the chapel, Rafael pulled me aside while the others filtered toward the cars.
“You know there’s no going back from this,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“Do you? Because the way you’re looking at her, the way you laughed in there…. This isn’t just about revenge anymore.”
He was right, and we both knew it. Somewhere between the kidnapping and the kiss, between her defiance and her surrender, this had become about something else entirely.
Something I wasn’t ready to name.
“She’s my wife now,” I said. “That makes her family. And you know what I do for family.”
Rafael studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. “Just remember, Maxim. The heart is the most dangerous weapon of all. Especially when you’re not the one wielding it.”
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing in the shadow of the chapel where I’d just bound myself to a woman who was either my salvation or my destruction.
Possibly both.