3. No one warned me he’d sound like that. （Tamara）
NO ONE WARNED ME HE’D SOUND LIKE THAT. (TAMARA)
“Don’t stumble.”
My father’s voice cuts through the organ music, low and sharp against my ear as we walk down the aisle. His grip on my arm is bruising. A hold that says “you belong to me” even as he’s about to hand me over to another man.
I almost laugh.
I’ve walked rooms in six-inch heels. Balanced on scaffolding while installing lighting in Manhattan penthouses. I don’t stumble.
But today isn’t about dignity. It’s about obedience.
The cathedral stretches endlessly ahead—gold icons pressing in from every wall, candles throwing heat I can feel from ten feet away, incense sitting thick at the back of my throat. A beautiful, airless trap. Rows of faces turn as I pass, bratva royalty watching this grotesque performance unfold.
A business deal wrapped in white lace and holy vows.
The dress rustles around my legs with every step, too tight through the ribs after a rushed alteration by a Russian woman who wouldn’t look me in the eye.
At the end of the aisle, waiting beneath the cathedral lights, stands Aleksander Sokolov.
And suddenly it’s harder to breathe.
He’s taller than I expected. Broad shoulders stretching dark wool. Dark hair cropped brutally short. Sharp cheekbones. Hard mouth. The kind of face that belongs on a wanted poster and a cologne advertisement simultaneously.
But it’s his eyes that stop me.
Ice blue.
Focused.
Unmoving.
He watches me approach with unnerving intensity, like he’s already trying to solve me.
Who is this man?
Why the hell is he agreeing to this?
My father practically dragged me into this church. Aleksander could have refused. Could have demanded another alliance, another arrangement, another woman.
Instead, he’s standing there waiting for me.
That realization fills me with resentment so sharp it almost steadies me.
My spine straightens.
If I’m walking into hell, I’ll do it standing tall.
The closer we get, the worse the awareness becomes. Not fear exactly, something hotter. Sharper. My body reacting to a dangerous man at the exact moment my life implodes.
Humiliation twists through me.
Really?
Now?
This is not attraction. It’s cortisol. Proximity to danger. My body doing something deeply unhelpful at the worst possible moment. That’s all this is. That is absolutely all this is.
The organ swells around us as we finally reach the altar. My father stops beside me.
Guilt flickers across his face. Then it’s gone.
“Be good,” he murmurs.
“Fuck you,” I hiss back.
His fingers tighten painfully on my arm. A warning.
But before he can retaliate, he places my hand into Aleksander’s.
The contact shocks through me.
Warm palm. Rough skin. Controlled strength.
Aleksander’s fingers close around mine firmly, thumb brushing once across my knuckles. His mouth shifts slightly at the corner, like my outburst amused him.
“Easy, trouble,” he murmurs quietly.
Traitorously, my hand stays where it is. No one warned me he’d sound like that. Like we were already in on something together. Like this was a joke we were both going to survive.
I hate that it almost works.
My head snaps toward him.
Big, big mistake. Because up close, he’s devastating.
Not polished pretty. Dangerous pretty. The kind of man women ruin their lives over.
And he’s still looking directly at me.
Not at my body.
Not at the dress.
At me.
Like he sees every crack I’m trying to hide. I hate that my survival instincts have apparently chosen this moment to become idiots.
Father Bogdan begins speaking in Russian, his voice echoing through incense and candle smoke. The words slide past me, meaningless.
The entire ceremony feels obscene suddenly. Sacred vows, gold crowns, ancient blessings—all of it draped over what is, at its core, a hostage exchange performed in front of God.
Aleksander keeps watching me.
“You’re angry,” he says quietly.
“You’re observant.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“And you’re not nearly as obedient as your father implied you’d be.”
A bitter laugh almost escapes me.
“You should ask for a refund.”
Father Bogdan drones on about sanctity and union while Aleksander studies me with unnerving calm.
“What are you getting out of this?” I ask quietly.
His gaze sharpens. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a Sokolov.” I keep my smile fixed for the audience. “Men like you don’t marry strangers unless the price is right.”
He lets the question stand, weighing how much to give me. “Alliance,” he says finally. “Access to ports.”
Honest enough to sound real.
“And? You think it will be worth it?”
“I’m starting to think so.”
I look away, focusing on a candle flame over his shoulder. On keeping my breathing even. On not letting anyone in this room see that his answer shook me.
The rings appear. The priest blesses them first, his voice low and unhurried, as if nothing in this cathedral is being done under threat. Then he slides Aleksander’s ring onto the ring finger of my right hand. My ring goes onto Aleksander’s.
We exchange them once. Twice. Three times. When it is finished, his ring sits on his hand and mine on mine. Then the priest turns to Aleksander.
“Do you, Aleksander Dimitrovich Sokolov, have a good, free, and unconstrained will and a firm intention to take this woman, Tamara Davidovna Kalinina, as your wife?”
“I have, Reverend Father.”
No hesitation.
The certainty in his voice unsettles me more than doubt would have.
“Have you promised yourself to another?”
“I have not.”
Then the priest turns to me.
“Do you, Tamara Davidovna Kalinina, have a good, free, and unconstrained will and a firm intention to take this man, Aleksander Dimitrovich Sokolov, as your husband?”
The cathedral goes impossibly still.
Free and unconstrained.
Mark.
My son. Alive somewhere, raised by strangers, waiting without knowing he’s waiting.
“Marry Aleksander Sokolov, and you’ll find out.”
I look into ice-blue eyes that should feel like a threat. Somehow they don’t. I hate that too.
“I have, Reverend Father.”
The lie leaves my mouth cleanly. Two words, and the door locks behind me.
“Have you promised yourself to another?”
No. Only to a dead child. To a life I buried because my father stole him from me. To a version of myself that would never have walked into this church willingly.
“I have not.”
The crowns are lifted. Heavy gold. The choir rises around us in haunting Russian harmony. Aleksander’s hand remains closed around mine as the priest leads us around the small table before the iconostasis.
Three circles. Eternal union.
I count my steps. One foot in front of the other. This is not eternity—this is a transaction with a timeline. Find Mark. Get him safe. Find the exit.
I just have to stay long enough to work out the details.
Aleksander never tightens his grip when I tense. Never pulls. Never forces me forward. He simply stays beside me, steady and present. When the final prayer ends, applause breaks through the cathedral.
His hand shifts from mine to my waist as we turn toward the crowd.
The touch should feel possessive. Instead it feels stabilizing.
“Look at me,” he murmurs quietly.
I do, and the intensity in his gaze nearly steals the air from my lungs.
“You’re safe,” he says softly. “I won’t be another man you have to fear.”
The promise lands somewhere I wasn’t guarding.
I don’t trust it.
I absolutely do not trust him.
But a part of me desperately wants to.
The cathedral doors swing open ahead of us, flooding the aisle with cold winter light. Camera flashes erupt instantly. Congratulations echo from every direction.
Beside me, Aleksander adjusts his stride automatically to mine as we walk.
My father watches from the front pew, satisfaction written plainly across his face. He got exactly what he wanted today.
Power. Alliance. Control.
And I got a platinum ring I never asked for and a husband who called me trouble before he knew my name.
He has no idea how right he is.