Chapter Five
Isabella’s POV
The morning light crept in through the tall, curtainless windows, falling across my face like a question I didn't want to answer. The room was still, too perfect. The kind of silence that came before vows or gunfire.
A soft knock then broke through it. "Come in," I said, my voice even. The door opened, and Emilia stepped in, followed by two servants carrying boxes of different sizes. The women lowered their packages onto the couch, bowed slightly, and left.
When the door opened, Emilia just stood there, her eyes glistening. "You're really going through with this," she said quietly.
I pushed myself up from the bed, smoothing my hair. "You know I don't have a choice."
Emilia crossed the room and hugged me hard. "I hate this idea. I hate that you're being forced into something that isn't love."
I smiled faintly against her shoulder. "Love's not a currency in our world, Emilia. Duty pays better."
Emilia pulled back, frowning. "You make it sound like you don't feel anything."
"I do," I said simply, my voice calm but sharp. "I just learned to feel quietly."
Emilia shook her head. "You shouldn't have to learn that." She turned to the gown laid out on the chair; it was a white satin, intricate lace, the kind of dress that belonged to fairy tales, not the Bratva.
"Everything in this world is for show," I said, walking toward the mirror. "Power, loyalty, even marriage."
Emilia sighed, folding her arms. "You sound like Viktor and Mikhail."
My reflection met her gaze in the mirror as I chuckled.
The room went quiet, and Emilia stepped closer again, her tone softening. "You don't have to pretend with me, Isa. I know this isn't easy."
"I'm not pretending," I said, still facing the mirror. "I just accept what's necessary."
Emilia studied me, the straight shoulders, the unblinking eyes. "You call this necessary?"
"It's the law of Bratva," I replied. "My father owed a debt, and I'm paying it. There's honor in that."
"You were supposed to have a real wedding someday," Emilia murmured. "One where you smiled for the right reasons."
I shrugged gently. "Maybe this is still that day. Just not in the way anyone expected."
"I still don't get it," Emilia said. "Why not run? You could've left this country, gone somewhere quiet–"
"And live like a fugitive?" I cut in. "Come on, you know I’m not the running type. I’d rather face it.”
“Even Mikhail is surprised at how easily you agreed to all this.”
I chuckled again.
I wanted to tell her the real reason I was going with his plans—but I really couldn’t.
As much as Emilia and I have become good friends, she was still a Lobanov.
While I had never had a reason to doubt her loyalty, telling her my plans would put her in a bad position as the Pakhan’s wife. I’d rather not.
My ringtone sounded, and I picked up the call. “Okay. Yeah, hand it to them. They’ll bring it up.”
“This is so not my style,” I told her, gesturing to the white dress the servants had laid on the bed.
She was about to respond when a knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” I called again.
A servant walked in with a nylon-covered dress on a hanger. My dress. In my signature color.
“Now, it’s my wedding,” I mentioned, smiling at a wide-eyed Emilia as I took the hanger from the servant and dismissed her.
“It’s magnificent,” she praised. “But a red wedding dress? How can you even think of fashion at a time like this?”
“It’s who I am,” I answered, shrugging. “Besides, I won’t be getting married twice. I should make it count.”
“Firecracker,” she quipped, chuckling.
“You know me.”
She sighed, her soft gaze on me.
"Emilia,” I whispered, my tone softening. “Thank you.”
"Always, Isa,” she answered. “You don’t have to thank me.”
I stared at the mirror, tracing the edge of my veil with my fingers.
I tilted my head, staring at my reflection.
If this is the end of me, then I'll end it on my own terms.
Inside my chest, I could feel it again, that quiet fire, the one I'd feel for months. This marriage was never about survival, but it was about justice, retribution. A slow burn until Mikhail Lobanov choked on his own sins.
I would get close, earn his trust, and let him believe I was his. And when he finally fell for me, truly fell...I would ruin him from the inside out.
But things wouldn’t be so simple, I knew that.
There was a problem. It was the fact that I was physically attracted to Mikhail, wildly so, even though I’d rather die than admit it to anyone.
I still remembered the few times I’d run into him, even when he wasn’t looking at me.
Even now, despite my anger and maybe hatred towards him, I wanted him.
I wondered if my bodily attraction towards him would make it easier or harder to get close to him and exact my revenge. After all, I had every reason to focus on my revenge.
He killed the man I loved the most, my only sibling.
Now, I’ll make him love the woman who’ll bring his end.
“What are you thinking about now?” Emilia inquired.
“I’m not planning to stage a wedding attack; you can calm down,” I joked.
There was another knock on the door, but it was one of Mikhail’s men who came in this time.
“Mrs. Lobanov,” he greeted Emilia. “Preparations are done on the rooftop garden. The guests are waiting.”
“Well, let’s go. I’m ready,” I told them both.
And as the heavy doors opened and lights spilled over me, I stepped forward, each movement measured, each breath deliberate because I wasn't walking to a wedding, I was walking to my revenge.
I’m ready.