5. Sofia #3
My uncle’s expression hardens, but not completely. There is something tired in him today. Something almost human. “Sofia.”
“No,” I say softly. “Don’t say my name like that today.”
His jaw tightens. For once, he doesn’t scold me.
He only offers his arm.
I stare at it.
This is the man who raised me. The man who protected me. The man who chose this marriage. The man who has loved me, maybe, in whatever limited and twisted way men like him can love anything without trying to own it.
I take his arm.
Because the doors are already closing behind me.
The church is full. That’s the first thing I notice.
Every pew is packed with Bratva royalty, old money, new money, men with guarded eyes, women in jewels, soldiers pretending to be guests, guests pretending not to notice the soldiers.
White flowers spill from the ends of the pews.
Candles burn along the aisle. The air smells of roses, incense, and too many expensive perfumes fighting for dominance.
The music begins, and everyone turns.
For half a second, the attention hits me so hard I almost stop walking.
Then my uncle’s hand tightens slightly over mine.
Not comforting. A reminder.
Walk.
So I walk. My dress whispers against the stone floor. My veil floats around my shoulders. The bouquet feels heavy in my hand, white roses tied with silk ribbon. Camera shutters click softly from somewhere near the back, though they are supposed to be forbidden.
Dmitri waits at the altar.
He looks pleased. That’s the only word for it.
Like a man seeing a house he has purchased finally lit from the inside. He stands tall in his black suit, hair perfect, face controlled, satisfaction warming his eyes as he watches me approach.
My stomach turns. The ugly feeling returns with teeth.
I keep walking.
Each step feels separate from my body.
One. Another.
Another.
I look at Dmitri and imagine his house. His rules. His hand on my wrist. His voice telling me I will adjust. His mother choosing my clothes. His men outside every door. His expectations in my bed.
For one horrifying second, I think I might actually be sick on the church floor.
That would be memorable. Maybe even useful.
But my body betrays me by remaining upright.
I reach the altar, my uncle places my hand in Dmitri’s, and Dmitri’s fingers close around mine. Firm. Possessive. His thumb strokes once over my knuckles, and the gesture looks tender from a distance. Up close, it feels like a lock sliding into place.
The minister smiles.
Dear God, he smiles. Like this is a wedding.
Like this is love.
Like everyone in this church has not come to watch a transaction receive holy language.
“We are gathered here today,” he begins, “in the presence of God and these witnesses, to join Dmitri Sokolov and Sofia Antonova in holy matrimony.”
Holy. That almost makes me laugh.
Dmitri looks at me. His smile deepens. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“Nerves?”
I look at him through the thin blur of my veil. Something inside me goes strangely calm. “No.”
His expression flickers.
Before he can respond, the minister continues, his voice rising clearly through the church. “Marriage is a solemn covenant, not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, thoughtfully, and with full commitment before God.”
Full commitment.
My fingers go cold in Dmitri’s hand.
I think of the envelope. Damir Volodin’s name in black ink. The assistant carrying it away. My dream of the church doors opening.
Nothing has happened.
Of course nothing has happened.
What did I expect? That a man like Damir Volodin would receive one absurd invitation from a desperate bride and decide to walk into a church full of enemies for entertainment?
Maybe he never got it.
Maybe his staff burned it.
Maybe he laughed once and threw it away.
Maybe I am exactly what everyone thinks I am: a girl with no power, mistaking rebellion for consequence.
The minister turns a page in his book. “Therefore,” he says, “if any person here can show just cause why these two may not lawfully be joined together, let them speak now or forever hold your peace.”
The words hang in the church. For one second, there is only silence, heavy and absolute.
Final.
My chest tightens.
Dmitri’s fingers squeeze mine, not painfully, but enough to remind me he is there. He is real. This is happening.
The minister draws breath to continue. Then, from somewhere behind us, a man says calmly, “I do.”
The entire church freezes.
My heart stops.
Dmitri’s hand goes rigid around mine.
My uncle, seated in the front pew, turns so sharply that for once he looks almost human in his shock.
The minister’s mouth remains slightly open as every guest twists toward the back.
I don’t turn immediately. I already know.
I know from the sudden silence. From the way Dmitri’s fingers dig into mine. From the cold recognition moving through the church before anyone says his name.
A draft slides down the aisle, cool beneath my veil.
I turn.
Damir Volodin stands at the entrance of the church in a black suit, silver at his temples, black gloves on his hands, and my invitation held between two fingers.