44. Forty-Four
FORTY-FOUR
HARLOWE
Morning arrived with a flurry of activity. I awoke to Luna gently shaking my shoulder, her face alight with excitement.
“Time to get up,” she said. “We’ve got to go. Your glam team will be at the reception hall in thirty minutes.”
I groaned, stretching carefully to avoid disturbing my new tattoo. “What time is it?”
“Eight. The ceremony is at three, but there’s so much to do.” She set a cup of coffee on the nightstand. “Frank’s waiting to drive us.”
I sat up, sipping the coffee gratefully.
“Atlas called. They’re all alive and apparently heading to get ready after we get there, so you both don’t accidentally run into each other.” Luna said with a smile. “Orion’s nursing the worst hangover, according to Atlas.”
I laughed, picturing the three men in various states of disarray. “And Arrow?”
“He’s fine. Russian blood is strong in that one.”
After I showered, Frank drove us through morning traffic to the reception venue.
The preparation suite was already bustling with activity when we arrived.
My dress arrived in a garment bag carried by two armed guards—a gesture that would have seemed absurd in any world but ours.
It was hung on a mannequin by the window.
A team of stylists waited, professional smiles in place, armed with curling irons and makeup brushes, like soldiers ready for battle.
Luna handed me a gift bag.
“What’s this?”
“Something to wear while you’re being pampered.”
Inside was a delicate silk robe in deep burgundy, with “Mrs. Romanov” embroidered in black script on the back.
The sight of those words made my stomach flip.
“It’s beautiful,” I told Luna, slipping the robe over my underwear.
“Arrow had it made for you,” Luna said with a knowing smile. “He wanted you to have something from him this morning.”
Pulling the robe tighter around me, I tried to imagine Arrow selecting something so delicate, so thoughtful.
It seemed at odds with the man who’d branded me, who’d fucked me against windows and bent me to his will.
Yet it fit perfectly with the man who’d held me last night, whose touch had been tender rather than punishing.
The stylist approached, gesturing for me to sit in the chair in front of the illuminated mirror. “We should get started, Ms. Virelli. We have a tight schedule.”
I settled into the chair, watching my reflection as the team descended upon me—one working on my hair, another preparing my face for makeup. Luna sat nearby, scrolling through her phone.
“Any word from the guys?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
Luna glanced up with a smirk. “Missing him already?”
“Just making sure they’re all still alive,” I replied, though we both knew it was more than that.
“They’re fine. Atlas says they’re almost here.” She paused, her expression growing more serious. “The security teams are in position. Frank has twenty men at the cathedral already, plus Atlas’s team. Your father’s security arrived an hour ago to do their own sweep.”
The mention of my father brought reality crashing back. This wasn’t just a wedding—it was a summit between warring factions, a ceasefire negotiated in white lace and black suits. And somewhere in the middle of it all, my father was planning... something.
I closed my eyes as the makeup artist began applying primer to my face. “So we’re getting married in what’s essentially an armed camp.”
“Welcome to the family,” Luna said with a wry smile.
As the stylist arranged my hair in loose waves down my back with white flowers woven through the strands, I caught Luna watching me in the mirror.
“What?” I asked.
“Just thinking about my wedding day,” she said with a distant look in her eyes. “It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.”
“Was it everything you’d hoped for?” I asked, watching her reflection in the mirror as the stylist continued weaving more flowers through my hair.
Luna laughed. “Hope had nothing to do with it. I married Atlas because I couldn’t breathe without him.
He saved me, Harlowe, in more ways than one.
On the outside, everyone sees this devil with no remorse.
A king who rules the underbelly of New York.
But he’s more than that. He’s human. He loves me.
I’ve seen him at his worst and his most vulnerable.
That’s what marriage really is—seeing someone at their darkest and choosing them anyway. ”
I considered this as the makeup artist began working on my eyes, instructing me to look up, down, and close them. The careful brush strokes felt like war paint being applied.
“I never thought I’d get married,” I admitted. “In our world, women like me are bargaining chips. I always assumed my father would use me for an alliance eventually, but I never pictured myself actually walking down the aisle.”
“And now?” Luna asked, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
I felt a smile tug at my lips. “Now I can’t imagine not walking toward Arrow.”
The makeup artist finished applying a deep red lipstick to my mouth—Arrow’s favorite color on me.
I studied my reflection, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me.
My eyes looked bigger, darker, framed by thick lashes and subtle smoky shadow.
My skin glowed, cheekbones highlighted to look sharper, more defined.
I looked like a bride, but not the kind from fairytales.
I looked like a woman about to marry into power, danger, and blood. And I liked it.
A knock at the door interrupted us. Frank entered, his expression professionally neutral, though his eyes betrayed concern.
“Your father is here,” he said. “He’s asking to see you.”
My stomach tightened. I hadn’t expected my father to arrive so early—the ceremony was still hours away. Luna’s hand found mine, squeezing gently in silent support.
“Send him in,” I said, meeting Frank’s eyes in the mirror.
Frank nodded, disappearing briefly before returning with my father.
Giovanni Virelli looked impeccable as always, his tailored black suit crisp, his silver hair perfectly styled.
But there was something different about him today—a tightness around his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that betrayed his discomfort.
“Leave us,” he commanded, not bothering with pleasantries.
Luna squeezed my hand once more before standing. “We’ll be right outside,” she said, her eyes conveying a clear message: she wouldn’t go far. The stylists followed quickly, clearly intimidated by my father’s presence.
When the door closed, my father studied me in the mirror, his eyes—so like mine—taking in my half-finished appearance.
“You look like your mother,” he said finally, the words landing like stones in still water.
I remained silent, watching his reflection as he moved to stand behind me. His hands rested on the back of my chair, knuckles white with tension.
“I want you to reconsider this marriage,” he said, his voice low and controlled.
I laughed, the sound brittle in the quiet room. “A bit late for that, don’t you think? The cathedral’s already been secured. The guests are arriving. Your men are in position.”
“Plans can change. Arrangements can be made.”
I turned in my chair to face him directly, no longer willing to have this conversation through reflections. “What are you really saying, Father? Have you found a better deal? Someone offering more than the Romanovs?”
His jaw tightened, that familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. “I’m offering you a way out. Before it’s too late.”
“A way out?” I stared at him, incredulous. “You’re the one who arranged this marriage. You’re the one who sold me to the Romanovs. And now, hours before the ceremony, you want me to what? Run away?”
My father’s eyes hardened. “I arranged this marriage with certain expectations. Expectations you’re clearly not meeting.”
And there it was. The real reason for his visit.
“You mean I’m not playing the spy you wanted me to be?” I said, my voice steady despite the anger building inside me. “I’m not gathering information to help you destroy the Romanovs from within.”
“You’re a Virelli,” he hissed, leaning closer. “Your loyalty should be to your blood, not to that Romanov animal who’s been pawing at you.”
I stood, forcing him to take a step back. Even in bare feet, with my hair half-done and wearing only a silk robe, I refused to let him tower over me. Not today. Not ever again.
“My loyalty?” I laughed. “That’s rich coming from you. Tell me, Father, did you arrange for Luca’s death too? Was your own son becoming too powerful for your liking?”
The color drained from his face. For once, Giovanni Virelli looked genuinely shocked. “What are you talking about?”
“Arrow told me everything. About the meeting. About how his uncle tortured Luca before killing him. About the rumors that you set it all up because Luca was gaining too much support.”
My father’s hand shot out, gripping my arm so tightly I knew it would bruise. “You believe the words of a Romanov over your own father? That boy is filling your head with lies to turn you against me.”
“Then tell me the truth,” I challenged, not flinching from his painful grip. “Did you know how Luca died? Did you even ask for details, or were you just relieved that he was out of your way?”
His grip loosened, but his eyes remained cold. “You don’t understand the complexities of our world, Harlowe. The decisions I’ve had to make to keep our family strong.”
“That’s not a denial,” I whispered, the truth settling like ice in my veins. “You did know. Maybe you didn’t order it directly, but you knew.”
“Luca was weak,” my father said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I remembered from childhood. “He was making deals with the Romanovs behind my back. He would have fractured our family from within.”
The admission knocked the air from my lungs. All these years, I’d grieved my brother, blamed the Romanovs for taking him from me. But the truth was far uglier than I’d imagined.