Chapter 4
Elena
Three days later, I sat in the dressing room and stared at my face in the mirror. No freckles. No bruised-looking shadows under my eyes.
Lydia had caked on foundation and concealer until my skin looked as flawless as Isabella's.
"Elena, what the hell is your body?" she said from behind me, yanking the laces tight. "Who the hell had ribs this wide? You looked like a goddamn shark."
My breath cut off. I forced shallow little inhales so the boning in the strapless bodice didn't crush my chest into something unrecognizable.
"Sorry," I said. "It just... it's really tight."
"Of course it is." Lydia smacked her lips. "This dress was Miss Isabella's size. She barely ate to keep it that way."
I bit my bottom lip and had nothing to say.
Isabella had always been perfect. Born to work a room. Father's prized daughter.
And me? I had been the spare.
She had left, so I had swallowed my pride, put on her wedding dress, and married her fiancé— the man I had been stupidly in love with for years.
The fact that I was about to marry Kiryan made it impossible to breathe like a normal person. I should've been happy. I should've been floating.
Instead my eyes kept burning.
I had pictured myself beside him a thousand times. I just hadn't pictured getting him like this. Now everyone would think I'd stolen Isabella's life like some desperate little thief.
"Jesus Christ, Elena." Lydia finished tying me in and let out a dramatic groan. "What are you crying for now? Stop making more work for me. You've always liked Mr. Morozov, right? You got what you wanted. So what the hell are you crying about?"
She wiped my tears away with an annoyed swipe, then jabbed a makeup brush into my face like she was scrubbing a stain. I sat there and took it, still as a doll.
I didn't think I'd ever gotten to choose anything. Other than my paintings, almost nothing in my life had ever belonged to me.
The gown cinched me into an exaggerated curve—too-small waist, too-full hips, my breasts threatening to spill out with one wrong breath. I didn't dare inhale too deep. My ribs already felt like they were being tested to the breaking point.
"Elena. Everyone is waiting," my father's voice came from the doorway.
He stood there with a dark, tight face, his suit pressed razor-sharp without a single wrinkle.
Today was the day the Rossi family and the Morozov family officially locked hands. To my father, this moment mattered as much as his own heartbeat.
"I am almost done," I said, tugging the fabric higher at my chest to make it look less exposed.
"That face of yours only looks decent under paint," he said, looking me up and down with open disgust. "You'd better perform today. Don't embarrass the Rossi name."
His contempt hit like needles—sharp, familiar—and still it didn't make a ripple in my chest anymore.
"I will, Father," I said, nodding, bowing my head a little like a good girl.
His expression softened by a fraction.
In heels that didn't fit, I walked to him in careful, broken steps. He grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the dressing room toward the doors of the hall—his grip rough, practical, not gentle. He wasn't guiding me. He was keeping me from face-planting.
I knew I didn't matter.
But if I fell on that carpet and humiliated him, he'd make sure I paid for it.
Every step felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Under the skirt my knees stayed slightly bent, the only way I could keep my balance.
The doors loomed in front of me. Behind them waited the red carpet that led straight into marriage with Kiryan.
"Think about what your sister would do," my father said, slapping my back. The sting lasted seconds, then panic flooded in again. "Head up. Shoulders back. Don't shame me."
The doors opened.
Hundreds of eyes snapped to me—maybe more. I couldn't count.
They watched my father and me step onto the carpet, and a wave of whispers slid through the room.
"Isn't that the younger Rossi daughter?" a woman in a blue gown muttered to the person beside her. "Why is she on the aisle?"
Another woman in a pale pink dress frowned hard. "At the engagement party, Kiryan's fiancée was Isabella. How the hell is it her now?"
Their eyes kept landing on me. If looks had been needles, I would've been bleeding.
I clamped my teeth into my lip and kept walking.
This hall was bigger than the engagement venue. The end of the carpet felt like it kept moving away from me. White roses—Isabella's favorite—lined both sides, their perfume crawling into my nose, reminding me again and again who this wedding was supposed to belong to.
Kiryan stood at the far end. Every step brought me closer, and every step felt stiffer than the last. I didn't know what waited for me.
When I finally stopped in front of him, his eyes looked dark, and his mouth curved like he'd already decided how this would go.
"Kiryan Morozov," the priest said, reciting the vows like always, "do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and honor her, in good times and bad, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death parts you?"
The sacred words sounded like a joke in my ears.
"I do," Kiryan said, flat, no emotion.
His gaze never left me, but nothing about it felt like love.
The ceremony rolled on. After the vows came the rings. The kiss.
"Please exchange rings," the priest said.
Kiryan took the ring and held out his hand for mine. That perfectly measured smile stayed on his mouth. His shoulders stayed steady. Even his breathing didn't change, like I'd always been the bride standing here.
It was wrong. If he'd demanded answers in front of everyone, if he'd cut the ceremony off, at least I would've known what to fear.
Instead he lifted my left hand with calm control. The ring—made for Isabella—caught on my knuckle. The diamond bit my skin, and I flinched on instinct.
Kiryan didn't pause. His thumb pressed the band down, hard, forcing it past the knuckle.
I sucked in a breath, but I couldn't yank my hand away with all those eyes on me.
The ring finally slid into place and clamped down, too tight. The pain was a thin crack only we could feel, hidden under this polished, respectable wedding.
That weightless, sick feeling swallowed me whole.
Yeah. What the hell had I been hoping for?
In his eyes, I'd chased off his fiancée. I was the kind of woman who clawed her way up no matter who she stepped on. He probably wished the one who'd vanished was me, not Isabella.
Then he offered his own ring and held out his left hand. My fingers shook so badly I could barely aim. He didn't move, just waited, patient, while I pushed it onto his ring finger. When I managed it, he even gave the priest a small nod.
The priest beamed and blessed us, and applause rose fast from the crowd.
The dizziness hadn't fully faded when Kiryan leaned in, slid an arm around my waist, and pulled me close.
"Don't get it twisted," he warned under his breath. "I am just finishing the process."
Then he kissed me.
His tongue drove into my mouth, rough, claiming, like he needed everyone watching to know he still ran this. That night—when he'd mistaken me for Isabella—he'd given me a few seconds of softness.
Now there was nothing but force.
My body remembered him before my mind could stop it. My legs went weak with shame.
I knew there was no tenderness in that kiss, and still my fingers panicked and fisted in his suit jacket. I couldn't catch a breath. I nearly collapsed into him.
Right as I started leaning into him, Kiryan ended it.
He pulled back clean, like he'd flipped a switch. I forced myself upright again, holding onto dignity by a thread.
"Look at them," someone said, clapping. "They look so in love!"
People who hadn't seen the engagement mess cheered and sighed.
The ones who'd known Isabella stared at me with disgust. Somewhere in the crowd, someone muttered, "Poor Isabella," and another voice agreed right away.
The ring made my finger throb. My chest felt tight.
"Not happy?" Kiryan's voice turned to ice. "You finally got to stand here like you wanted."
A chill ran up my spine. My gut told me everything after this only got worse.
After the ceremony, the reception happened like clockwork.
I wore a champagne-colored evening gown and pinned my hair up high, trying to look like I belonged in this room.
It stayed in the same ballroom. The towering flower baskets and Roman columns were gone.
A champagne tower glittered on one table.
Perfect little desserts and plated bites filled the others.
It looked like the kind of reception only New York's top tier could afford—silverware catching the light, food arranged to tempt you.
I barely saw any of it.
As Kiryan's wife, I had to hold a glass and trail behind him, greeting everyone we met. Isabella lived for this. I only knew how to sweat through it.
"Thank you for coming," Kiryan said, that shallow smile never leaving his face.
"It is an honor to witness your wedding," an elderly man said. He was short, with kind eyes. "Your wife is stunning. Very poised."
"You are too kind," I said, dipping my head. "Thank you for being here."
Kiryan's expression didn't shift, but the hand at my waist tightened suddenly. Even through fabric, I felt the pressure of his fingers.
"A Rossi daughter receives the strictest training," he said smoothly. "Elena knows exactly how to behave tonight."
When the man walked away, Kiryan grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the ballroom.
The lounge was quiet. Empty.
"That sweet, obedient act might've fooled the guests," he said, flinging my wrist away like it disgusted him, "but it doesn't fool me." His eyes looked like they were about to burn. "Tell me where Isabella is."
"Isabella left a letter and disappeared," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "My father and I don't know where she went."
He stared straight into my eyes like he was weighing every blink.
"What did she say?"
I dropped my gaze. I couldn't answer. He drove me backward until my spine hit the cold wall, the chill soaking right into my bones.
"That night, Isabella came to my room," he said.
"She only knew you came out of it. She didn't know what happened inside.
" He slammed a palm into the wall beside my head.
The impact made my shoulders jump. "I warned you to bury that shit.
So what the fuck did you say to her? Why did Isabella vanish right before the wedding? "
My heart crashed against my ribs.
He wasn't asking why Isabella left. In his head, the answer was already carved in stone.
And Isabella had gone to his room after I left. She'd figured it out herself, then played it like I'd confessed. She'd bragged she'd never loved Kiryan. She'd taken him because she knew I did.
I could've told him all of it. But the second I pictured the way he looked at her, I knew any truth coming from my mouth would sound like a cheap lie.
Isabella had set the board perfectly. I'd walked into the wrong room. I hadn't kept fighting him. She'd left, and I'd put on her dress.
Even I looked at those facts and saw a careful, ugly setup.
"I just did what my father ordered," I said at last, hollow. "I got through the wedding."
"Elena," he said, low, "you still remember my warning from that night?"
He stopped asking about Isabella, and the air in my lungs turned colder.
Of course I remembered. That line sat in my head like a bomb that never stopped ticking.
"Say it," he ordered.
"You said—" I swallowed hard. "If I told anyone, you'd shove it back into my chest... then you'd put me in the ground."
I said it slowly. Every word sharpened the memory—his voice, the insults, the threat.
"Good," he said. "At least you didn't forget." His thumb pressed to the pulse in my throat like he was counting my heartbeat. "Then you understand this: I don't give a damn how many excuses you have. I care about results."
"That isn't fair."
His eyes narrowed. My pushback clearly hadn't been expected.
"In my world, there isn't any fair," he said, leaning in. His hard, mature face blocked the light overhead. "If I issue a warning and do nothing after it gets ignored, everyone will know my word means nothing."
In that moment, I didn't see a groom.
I saw the Pakhan who kept New York's underground quiet.
"I didn't ignore your warning," I said, teeth trembling. "And I didn't choose this wedding."
"You wore a ring I picked out," he said, unblinking. "And Isabella is gone. No matter how you spin it, you look like the reason."
His gaze dropped to my ring finger. His fingertip traced the band that was cutting into my skin. It shouldn't have felt intimate.
My heart still jumped anyway, traitorous.
"Becoming my wife," he said, eyes sliding past my shoulder to the balcony behind me, "is going to be the biggest mistake of your life."
"Kiryan—" I got his name out, and he clamped a hand on my shoulder and yanked me to the railing.
Wind knifed across my skin. We were on the top floor of the hotel—fourteen stories up—and beyond the rail there was nothing. The edge dug into my waist as he shoved half my body out over empty air.
What was he doing? Was he going to push me?
"Let me go—I didn't tell her about that night!" Survival tore out of my throat. "She found out on her own!"
He didn't answer.
"I'm going to fall," I said, gripping his hand so hard my knuckles screamed. My stomach rolled. "Kiryan, please—pull me back."
"Remember this feeling," he said.
Then he yanked me in.
I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking.
Tomorrow I was going to move into his manor.
But there was still a gap between us I couldn't cross.
And just now, he had almost killed me.