Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Dante & Natasha
Dante
The organ swelled, and under a sea of awkward, probing stares, I kept my smile plastered on, dragging my so-called bride down the aisle step by step.
Those hundred yards were the longest, most humiliating walk of my life.
In my peripheral vision, I caught the old foxes in the front row—the Falcone patriarch raising his champagne flute with a knowing nod, the heads of the Russian bratva whispering to each other, eyes glinting with curiosity.
Could they not see the bride had been switched? Of course they could. Natasha and Vera might have similar builds, but their bearing was night and day.
But I couldn't lose it. Not here. In this arena of power, one slip of control and those vultures would pick me clean. So I channeled all my rage into the wrist I gripped like a vice.
Past the church's heavy walnut doors, through the banquet hall corridor, the waitstaff took one look at my storm-cloud face and shrank back against the walls like I carried the plague.
I hauled Natasha into a private lounge off the banquet hall and threw her aside.
"Ah!"
She slammed into the wall with a muffled cry, her body sliding halfway down. The diamond tiara—symbol of purity and blessing—went crooked from the impact, and a few loose golden curls fell across her forehead. She looked utterly wrecked.
I didn't give her time to collect herself. I closed the distance, looming over that face so similar to Vera's yet so different.
"Where is Vera?"
Natasha's lashes fluttered violently. She opened her mouth, throat working in a dry swallow, like she wanted to speak but couldn't get the words out.
"I'm asking you—where the hell is Vera Kornilov, the woman who was supposed to be at that altar wearing my ring?" I roared, slamming my fist into the wall beside her head.
She flinched hard, eyes instantly flooding red.
"And whose brilliant idea was this?" I narrowed my eyes, scanning her face for any trace of guilt. "Was it your opportunistic bastard of a father, Nikolai Kornilov? Or... was this all you?"
Natasha's head snapped up, those beautiful green eyes brimming with tears.
Tears? She'd replaced my bride, played me for a fool in front of every guest, and she thought she had the right to feel wronged?
"Talk!" I grabbed her throat, squeezing.
After an eternity, she choked out a weak, tearful, "I'm sorry."
Sorry? She thought that pathetic word fixed everything? Thought a hollow apology erased the humiliation the Romanov family suffered today, wiped clean her scheming manipulation? Did she think I was some kind of idiot to be played with?
"Sorry?" I repeated mockingly, tightening my grip on her neck. "You should be sorry, Natasha. You made me look like a complete fool."
She stared at me in terror, shrinking into herself.
"How long are you going to keep up this act?" I sneered, looking her up and down. "Think your performance was flawless? Think you finally got what you've been dreaming of with your dirty tricks?"
"I-I didn't..." She shook her head frantically, tears pooling but refusing to fall.
"Didn't?" I stepped closer, crowding her. Time to lay it all out. "Natasha, you've had this huge crush on me. You think I didn't know?"
Vera—who couldn't keep her mouth shut—had told me ages ago, laughing about it over drinks. But I'd brushed it off. What did I care? Just some silly girl with a schoolgirl crush. Not worth my attention. So I'd never paid any mind to those furtive, clingy glances.
Never thought I'd trip over a woman like this.
The color drained from Natasha's face. She looked gutted. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
Perfect. That's what I wanted.
"You're nobody in the Kornilov house. Even the staff can push you around.
" I studied her tears, a cruel smile tugging at my lips.
"You're not as beautiful as Vera, don't have her cunning, can't even manage to be likable.
Your opportunistic father would've pawned you off to some third-rate family's idiot son. So you panicked, didn't you?"
I watched her sway, unsteady on her feet. My fury didn't cool—it burned hotter.
"So you orchestrated this entire con!" I bit out. "Yesterday at the bridal shop, wearing your sister's wedding dress, half-naked in that dim fitting room... You knew I'd be there, didn't you?"
"No! It was an accident!" Natasha finally broke, flailing weakly to interrupt my accusations.
"Accident?" I laughed bitterly, like I'd heard the world's best joke.
I replayed last night in my head—hungover, pulling her close from behind in that fitting room, her faint, almost flirtatious resistance.
"You'd rehearsed that little tease perfectly.
Wrong person, shop assistant's mistake, trying on the dress reluctantly...
You were waiting for me! You knew I was drunk, knew I thought you were Vera—but did you push me away?
Did you scream? No. You went along with it.
Enjoyed the kisses and touches meant for your sister. "
Natasha leaned against the wall, hands covering her face, shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs.
"Don't play the victim with me!" I yanked her hands down, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"After you got what you wanted, you ran straight to Vera, didn't you?
Someone as proud as her couldn't stomach her fiancé screwing her little sister the night before the wedding.
So you deliberately drove her away so you could marry me. "
I sucked in a sharp breath, fire scorching my chest. I couldn't forgive my loss of control last night. Couldn't forgive being played by this seemingly harmless, secretly venomous woman.
"Now you've got what you wanted." I released her, wiping my hand on my pants in disgust. "You successfully took your sister's place. Became my wife. The pakhan's wife. How does it feel, Natasha? Climbing over your own sister's broken heart to get here—does it feel good?"
Natasha gasped for air. She looked at me with a despair I couldn't decipher.
"Natasha," I said coldly, delivering my final judgment, "you disgust me."
Natasha
I felt suffocated, close to death.
My most secret feeling—he'd weaponized it. Twisted the unrequited love I'd never dared hope would be returned into some calculated conspiracy. I wanted to argue, to scream the truth—that I'd never tried to use these feelings, never dreamed of actually having him.
But I couldn't say anything.
If I exposed Vera's runaway act, told Dante the Kornilov family was playing him, with his temper, he'd flip instantly. He'd have every gang in New York level my family overnight. Nikolai would die. Even innocent staff would suffer.
I couldn't let that happen.
What choice did I have but to swallow these false accusations? Become his scapegoat for rage? Nothing. I could do nothing.
"I'm sorry."
I bit my trembling lip and repeated that pale, powerless apology. His grip on my throat was too tight—I tasted blood in my mouth—but I felt no pain because my heart pounded too fast, making me dizzy.
"What does sorry fix?"
Dante's voice spiked as he shoved me away.
"I want the truth! How long are you going to keep up this pathetic damsel act?" He paced the small room like a raging lion.
I kept my head down, staring through blurred vision at the carpet's pattern—gold and red threads woven together, like my messy, trampled life.
I stayed silent.
Anything I said would be wrong. Any explanation would just be more proof of my scheming in his biased mind.
But my silence didn't stop his attack.
"Natasha, go look in a mirror." Dante laughed coldly, sizing me up with pure malice. "You don't even come close to Vera. She's beautiful, radiant, confident. You don't measure up in looks, and your rotten heart is even worse. You don't deserve to be her sister."
I smiled bitterly inside. Vera, kind? The woman who'd bullied me since childhood, toyed with me, who knew I liked Dante but deliberately pursued him, stole him, then threw her own sister under the bus to escape responsibility—in his eyes, she was the picture of goodness?
"Cheap knockoff." Dante's disgust overflowed. He couldn't even stand to look at me anymore.
Just then, outside the cracked door, a commotion stirred.
Hushed whispers followed, thick with gossip.
"Is that the bride?"
"Why's she crying? Romanov looks pissed..."
"That's not Vera Kornilov. I knew something was off in the church—completely different vibe."
"I heard the sister replaced her? The Kornilovs are something else..."
I froze.
I wasn't used to being the center of attention. My whole life, I'd been invisible, avoiding comparisons and mockery next to Vera. This scene was every nightmare element combined.
Instinctively, I reached out and grabbed Dante's sleeve.
"Dante, please..." I kept my voice low, trembling with desperation. "People are watching. Can we talk after the reception?"
I thought my surrender, my humility, might buy me a moment of his rationality.
I was dead wrong.
"Get off me!"
Dante violently shook off my hand. The force sent me staggering back into the wall, pain shooting through my spine. He turned, glancing through the door crack at the guests craning their necks outside.
Suddenly, he did something I never saw coming.
He whirled around and lunged at me like a completely enraged beast, roughly tearing open the lace collar at my neckline.
The sound of expensive lace shredding echoed loudly in the cramped space.
"Ah! What are you doing?" I cried out, instinctively raising my hands to cover my exposed chest.
But he was faster. One hand pinned both my wrists against the wall, the other thumb pressed into my collarbone and neck, rubbing hard back and forth. The skin burned under his touch as he scrubbed away the thick layer of concealer.
Under the harsh light, the bruises and love bites showed clear as day.
Exposed to the guests peering through the crack outside.
The hallway went dead silent for a beat. Then came sharp gasps and stifled laughter.
I went cold all over, forgot how to breathe. All I heard was the desperate ringing in my ears.
"You schemed your way into my bed, drove off your sister, used every dirty trick to marry me..." Dante released my wrists and stepped back with a cold laugh. "And now you want to play innocent?"
He was destroying me.
Broadcasting to everyone outside that this farce was entirely the work of a scheming little sister.
That I was a shameless whore.
I stood frozen, tears blurring my vision fast, but all I could do was accept it, slowly lowering my head in silent acknowledgment of this humiliating narrative.
Abandoned by my own father and my future husband—what room did I have to struggle? My only survival strategy was to be like a weed: endure every trampling.
I closed my eyes. One last tear slid down my cheek.
I'd finally married the man I loved. And my newlywed life would be true hell.