Chapter Five
Mila’s POV
The city of New York shimmered beyond the bulletproof glass of the Lobanov estate, but to me, it looked like a holographic projection—a world that no longer existed.
I sat perched on the edge of a velvet vanity stool, my spine as rigid as the corset boning beneath my gown. The morning air was sharp and clear, the kind of day that should have signaled a new beginning. Instead, it felt like the quiet before a controlled demolition.
“Mila, stop. You’re going to give yourself a migraine if you keep staring at your own pupils like that.”
Anya’s voice was a welcome anchor, though her reflection in the mirror was almost too bright to look at.
She stood behind me, her fingers fluttering through my hair as she tucked a stray chestnut curl into a cluster of pearls.
She looked every bit the Bratva princess—radiant, poised, and utterly at home in a house teeming with men who killed for a living.
I looked back at my own reflection. The gown was a masterpiece of pale cream silk, a color Anya had insisted on.
It was elegant. It was simple. The boatneck collar and long, tapering sleeves gave me a regal silhouette that felt like a costume.
Nothing about this day felt like mine. Not the dress, not the heavy platinum ring waiting on the dresser, and certainly not the name I was about to take.
“I feel like I’m being prepped for a taxidermy exhibit,” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow in the cavernous master suite.
“You look like a queen,” Anya corrected, though her smile didn’t quite reach her green eyes. Of course, she couldn’t deny her dislike for my lack of choice in the matter, even though she was so positive about her brother and me working out.
She reached for the bottle of vintage champagne chilling in a silver bucket nearby. The ice rattled—a sharp, jagged sound in the heavy silence. “And queens don’t get taxidermized. They rule.”
She popped the cork with a practiced flick and poured two glasses. The bubbles hissed, a frantic, tiny sound that mimicked the static in my brain.
“Here,” she said, pressing a crystal flute into my hand. “Drink. It’s the good stuff. Alexei’s private reserve. Apparently, he thinks a hundred-year-old vintage can solve existential dread.”
I took a sip. It was crisp, cold, and tasted like ash.
“I heard a joke this morning,” Anya revealed, chuckling. “What do you call a Lobanov wedding with no security? A funeral.”
I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t even manage a polite curve of the lips.
The reality was too close. The estate was under a level of lockdown that felt more like a military occupation.
From the window, I could see the black SUVs lined up in the driveway.
Armed men in dark suits patrolled the perimeter, their hands never far from the holsters beneath their jackets.
I was safe here. Safe in the way a prisoner is safe inside a fortress.
“I don’t want to be a queen, Anya,” I said, setting the glass down so hard the champagne slopped over the rim. “I want to be a psychology student. I want to finish my Master’s. I want to go back to the library where the only thing I have to fear is a late fee, not a sniper’s bullet.”
Anya’s expression softened, the mask of the socialite slipping to reveal the friend I could always trust. She sat on the edge of the vanity, her silk dress rustling.
“I know. But Mila, you saw what happened at the engagement party. You saw how fast they moved. If you walk out of here as Mila Petrov, you’re a ghost. If you walk out as Mila Lobanov, you’re a god. ”
“Is that what Alexei thinks?” I asked, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “That he’s turning me into a god? Or is he just adding me to his collection of high-value assets?”
“He’s protecting you,” Anya insisted. “My brother… he isn’t cruel. He’s cold, yes. He’s strategic. He sees the world as a series of moves on a board. But he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t think it was the only way to keep you breathing. He’s not uncaring, Mila. I know him better than anyone.”
I walked to the window, the heavy silk of my gown hissing against the rug. I pulled back the velvet curtain just an inch. Below, I saw Dimitri—Alexei’s shadow—checking his watch. The sun caught the glint of a rifle on the roof of the garage.
I remembered my father. Lev Petrov. The man I had mourned for a decade, believing he was a closed chapter. But now, the monsters he had provoked were coming for me.
I bet he’s laughing from heaven right now.
A sharp, authoritative knock at the door made me jump. My heart leaped into my throat.
“It’s time,” a deep, gravelly voice announced from the hallway.
Anya straightened her dress and reached for my veil—a delicate, weightless cloud of lace that felt like a spider’s web. She pinned it into my hair, her fingers steady. “Deep breaths. Just like we practiced. You are Mila Lobanov now. The world doesn’t touch you unless you let it.”
She gave me one last look, a mixture of understanding and pride, and slipped out of the room to join the processional.
I was alone.
I thought of Alexei’s face, his dark auburn hair, the way his suits fit him like armor, the quiet, commanding presence that made the air in any room feel thin.
He was coming for me. Not to love me, but to claim me.
I walked toward the door, my heels clicking on the hardwood with the finality of a gavel.
I reached the door that led to the private wing where the ceremony would be held. My hand hovered over the handle.
For the umpteenth time, I thought about running. But where would I go? The Italians were outside. The Lobanovs were inside. I was a bird caught between two storms.
I remembered the way Alexei had looked at me when he said, “Marry me.” It hadn’t been a request. It hadn’t been a plea. It had been an ultimatum.
I took a breath, the silk of my dress tight against my ribs. I looked down at my hands—they were trembling, but my grip on the door handle was firm.
I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t built for blood and shadows. But as I opened the door to meet my fate, I felt something shift inside me. A hardening. The closing of a door to the girl I used to be.
I walked back to the mirror one last time before leaving.
This wasn’t a beginning. It was a declaration.
“This isn’t love,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice a jagged edge in the silence. “This is war.”
The doors to the grand hall didn’t just open; they retreated, surrendering to the weight of the moment.
I took a breath that felt like swallowing glass as I took my first step.
The walk down the aisle was shorter than I had imagined, yet every step felt like a mile across a minefield.
There was no soft organ music, no flowers, no rows of smiling faces from my childhood, no tradition.
It seemed the Lobanovs had stripped away the pretense of a typical wedding in favor of something far more honest.
The room was stark, filled with the hum of silent, powerful men and the cold gleam of marble. At the end of that long, white-carpeted path stood Alexei.
He was a man carved from the very stone that surrounded us.
In his black three-piece suit, he looked less like a groom and more like an eclipse—dark, inevitable, and cold.
His auburn hair was brushed back with lethal precision, and his hazel eyes were fixed on me with a focus so intense it felt physical.
I tried not to think of the last time those eyes darkened with desire as he kissed me, but I couldn’t help myself.
As I drew closer, my heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird pleading for release.
I looked into his eyes, searching for the monster, for the strategist, for the tyrant.
For one heartbeat, as I stepped onto the dais to stand before him, I swore I saw something else.
A flicker. A momentary softening of the ice.
A dark, swirling depth I didn’t have the vocabulary to understand yet.
It wasn't love—not yet—but it was something hungry.
Something that saw me not just as an asset, but as the only thing in the room that mattered.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the marble mask returned.
There was no priest. There were no "dearly beloveds." If I were being honest, it wasn’t exactly surprising. In the Lobanov world, power was the only deity they worshipped.
A man in a sharp gray suit—a notary or a high-ranking official within their shadows—stood with a leather-bound folder.
The vows were short. They were less like promises and more like clauses in a treaty.
"Do you, Alexei Lobanov, take this woman?"
"I do," his voice was a low, melodic rumble that vibrated the floorboards.
"Do you, Mila Petrov, take this man?"
My voice caught in my throat. I looked at Alexei. He didn't blink. He didn't offer a reassuring smile. He simply waited, his presence an immovable force.
"I do," I whispered. The words felt like a seal on a tomb.
Then came the ring.
Alexei reached out, his large hand taking mine.
His skin was warm, his grip steady and unyielding.
He slid the platinum band onto my finger.
It was heavy—far heavier than any piece of jewelry had a right to be.
As the metal settled against my skin, I felt it: the weight of the entire Lobanov empire.
It wasn't just gold and diamonds; it was the weight of every secret, every death, every shipping port, and every drop of blood that had built the walls of this estate.
It was a shackle, and it was a shield. And in that moment, I knew I would never be light again.
"Then by the laws of this house," the middle-aged man said, "you are wed."
Alexei didn't wait to be told to kiss the bride. He moved with a predator’s grace, his hand cupping the back of my neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind my ear. He leaned down, and his lips met mine.