18. Artem
Artem
She doesn't take my arm when we walk out of the church.
I offer it. She looks at it the way she looks at most things I give her now — like she's calculating the cost of accepting — and then she walks beside me without touching, close enough that the cameras Pyotr arranged will capture what they need to capture, far enough that I feel the distance like a physical thing.
She's fit into her role perfectly, and I have conflicting feelings about that. It's easier this way — her being compliant — but I miss the fire inside of her, and even more so, I miss the way she used to smile at me with soft eyes and shy smiles.
Now, there's a guard there, and the only emotion I capture is anger.
The car is waiting at the curb. I open the door myself, and she steps past me and gets in without a word.
I follow, and we are alone in the back of the car with the partition up and the city sliding past the windows.
The silence between us is heavier than it has ever been. There's a lot between us, and it's weighing in the space. And for the first time, perhaps ever, I don't know what the hell to do or say.
This was my wedding. It was the pinnacle of everything I started a year ago, and yet, the success of this moment feels bitter.
"Are you cold?"
She turns to look at me, and I see the surprise she doesn't quite manage to hide. "No."
"It's chilly."
"I'm fine." She is staring straight ahead, not looking at me. "The dress has long sleeves."
I nod. The dress is modest — all lace and silk — and though not a single sliver of skin is showing, there is something incredibly striking about it.
When I turned and saw her walking down the aisle, head held high, shoulders back, defiance shining in her eyes, I couldn't help but think that she was the most beautiful thing ever created.
And yet, even as she sits next to me, my ring on her finger, she's not mine. This is a ruse.
Revenge.
It's becoming more challenging to remember that the more I grow to respect her.
"You were composed." The words flow out before I can stop them. "No one would suspect."
"I've been performing my whole life." Her voice is level, but not cold. There's something underneath it — not softness, not warmth—exhaustion. "Standing in front of people and feeling one thing while showing them another. Today was just a different kind of stage."
I look at her profile, the straight line of her jaw, the deliberate way she's watching the city instead of me.
"Katya—"
She turns, and for a moment we are simply looking at each other in the back of the car, and something moves between us that isn't anger and isn't desire, exactly — something quieter than both, and more dangerous for it.
"Don't," she says.
"We are married now."
"Don't remind me," she snaps.
I sigh. Apparently the fire isn't completely gone.
"The reception will be short," I tell her. "Two hours. Dinner, the necessary toasts. After that, you can?—"
"Go home?" The bitterness in her voice is precise. "To your apartment."
"To our apartment."
She turns back to the window. I watch the city lights move across her face.
"I tried, you know," she says quietly, almost to herself. "I spent my whole life building something that was mine. Something no one could take away." A pause. "Turns out you just needed to be more patient than I was."
The words land somewhere they shouldn't.
"I know what I've taken from you," I say, and it's the most honest thing I've said to her since the restaurant.
She turns to look at me, and her expression is something I don't have a clean name for — not surprise, not grief, something between them. She studies my face for a moment.
"Do you?" she asks quietly.
The car slows. I glance up — we're arriving. Through the window I can see the entrance to the venue, Pyotr managing the periphery, lights, guests, the machinery of the evening already in motion.
I reach out, not for her hand, but for the door handle.
Then I stop.
"I know that I am the villain in your story." I hold her gaze. "But I'm not a monster. I won't harm you."
She snorts. "You already have."
Before I can respond, the door opens. Pyotr stands at the curb, and beyond him, the assembled guests, the photographers, the evening that requires us to be something presentable.
I step out and offer her my hand.
She looks at it for a moment. Then she takes it, and we walk in together, and the door closes on whatever was happening in the back of that car, and the show continues.