Chapter 10 – Sienna
It’s my wedding morning.
I sit before a gilded mirror as the stylist pins pearls into my red hair, each one placed with precision, each one a quiet reminder of control. My gown hangs from the carved wardrobe behind me: minimalist silk, open back, structured bodice. Exquisite, unromantic, like every part of this plan.
I won’t give Sebastian softness. I will not step into this marriage pretending to be anything other than the woman I’ve become. My revenge demands clarity. Presence. And today marks the first real step.
“You look positively radiant.” The stylist steps back, eyes wide. “It’s time to put the dress on, Sienna.”
I nod calmly. My fingers grip the chair as she lifts the gown, letting the silk glide over my skin. Cool, smooth, precise, it settles into place like armor, a second skin designed to protect and disarm.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Every line of my posture, every tilt of my head, every measured breath is intentional. This isn’t the girl Sebastian once thought he could break. I’m different. I’ll wreck him before he has the chance to jump off the ship.
The stylist swallows, clearly impressed. “You look…breathtaking.”
I allow the smallest, controlled smile. “Thank you.”
I lift my chin, take a slow, intentional breath. Today I walk into a marriage, yes, but also into the reckoning he never saw coming. Today, I’m visible. I’m untouchable.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. The stylist opens the door, and my father steps in, chest swelling with misty pride. I nod politely, allowing myself a fraction of warmth—not because he deserves it, but because he’s a means to an end. I will not let resentment cloud strategy.
He sold me off to the Rusnaks without asking me, without considering if I wanted this. The only reason I still speak to him is because it favors me.
“Time to go,” he says, his voice steady. “Everyone is already waiting at the church.”
The stylist helps me slip into my shoes, the silk of the gown whispering against my legs. I rise carefully, feeling the weight of every pearl in my hair, every fold of silk around my body.
I take my father’s arm, walking with calculated grace. Each step measured, deliberate. I follow him out of the room, leaving the quiet of my preparation behind. Outside, the world waits.
We walk silently down the stairs and pause at the entrance of the chapel. Soft music drifts through the air, delicate but commanding. My father looks at me.
“Ready?”
I nod.
The guards outside throw the doors open, and we step inside. Every pair of eyes turns to me. Chandeliers bathe the chapel in soft, golden light. White flowers line the aisles, their scent drifting lightly through the air. Wealth, ceremony, expectation—it presses down, thick and undeniable.
But I see only one man.
Sebastian stands at the altar, emotion clenched tight beneath the flawless control of his expression. His suit is black, perfectly tailored, and his hair is slightly tousled, as though he’s run a hand through it too many times, battling the storm inside him. His gaze locks on mine.
For a heartbeat, the world stops. The music, the murmurs, the shifting of feet—it all falls away. He looks at me not with the hunger of the past, nor the guilt I half-expected. He looks at me with recognition.
As if he finally understands I didn’t come to him blindly. As if he senses the trap snapping closed. As if he realizes the woman in white walking toward him isn’t a bride…but a reckoning.
We reach the altar. My father stops and turns to me. His eyes are proud but cautious. He gives me a final nod and then lifts my hand toward Sebastian.
He shakes my father’s hand firmly, then takes my hand, helping me up to stand beside him. No bridesmaids flank me, no extended family crowd the edges—just my father and Aunt Isla. Vivian, my only friend here, is seated on the groom’s side of the pew, since she’s Dimitri Rusnak’s wife.
The ceremony begins.
The officiant steps forward, robes flowing, voice calm but commanding. He begins with words of unity, the kind that usually melt hearts, but I feel nothing. I’m sharp, poised, untouchable.
He speaks of partnership, trust, and love, his words rolling over the congregation. I don’t flinch. I don’t soften. I hold Sebastian’s hand lightly, letting him think the pressure is mutual, that I’m the perfect bride, but every inch of me is poised for war.
Sebastian’s grip tightens once, then relaxes, his jaw clenched as he listens to the ceremonial vows. I watch him carefully, studying the subtle shifts in his expression, noting the microseconds he glances at me with restrained tension.
When the officiant asks for our vows, I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice steady and controlled.
“I, Sienna Roth, stand here not only for the union of our families, but for the clarity of purpose that brings me forward today,” I say, every word deliberate, every pause intentional.
“I promise to walk this path with intention, to honor what must be honored, and to hold firm in what I believe is mine to protect.”
Sebastian stares, his expression unreadable, but I see the flash of something—intrigue, maybe frustration, maybe both.
When it’s his turn, he swallows and speaks carefully, measured. “I, Sebastian Rusnak…stand here in acknowledgment of this union…of purpose, family, and legacy. I will uphold the responsibilities that come with it.” His words are calm, but I feel the underlying tension in his tone.
The officiant nods, guiding us through the exchange of rings.
I take the diamond from the box and slide it onto his finger with deliberate ease, then he does the same for me.
The weight of the ring is more than metal; it’s a symbol, a challenge, a declaration of the battlefield we’re about to enter.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant intones.
A joyful murmur ripples through the chapel.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Sebastian leans down, controlled as ever, and brushes his lips over mine. It’s brief and ceremonial; two seconds later, he’s already retreating.
Not on my watch.
I step into him and capture his mouth with mine.
It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s forceful.
I feel his sharp intake of breath against my lips, feel the instant tension in his body as the moment slips out of his control. For one heartbeat, the world narrows to the press of his mouth, the stunned stillness of him beneath my intent.
Then I pull back.
A soft smile curves my lips.
His eyes darken. Narrow. Warning and disbelief flicker there in equal measure.
I wink.
The crowd erupts into applause, none the wiser, delighted by what they assume is passion instead of provocation. I turn toward them first, chin lifted, already victorious.
Sebastian’s hand closes around mine as we start down the aisle together. Outwardly perfect. Seamless. But I feel the rigidity in him now—every muscle locked, every thought recalibrating.
Good.
Outside, sunlight floods the steps of the chapel. Our families surge forward with practiced enthusiasm—embraces, congratulations, blessings layered thick with expectation and relief. My aunt presses a kiss to my cheek. My father looks pleased, proud, satisfied.
Sebastian’s family closes in next, measured and watchful. Cameras flash. Smiles are exchanged. Hands are shaken. Vivian hugs me for a long moment. She’s the only hug I relax into.
The car pulls up to take us to the after-party.
At the reception, I become exactly who I need to be.
The room hums with music and laughter and expensive champagne.
Crystal glasses clink. People congratulate us like they’re congratulating themselves for witnessing history.
Sebastian plays the role effortlessly—laughing with his brothers, clapping backs, trading inside jokes in Russian.
He brings me along, an arm draped around my waist, introducing me as if I’m a prized acquisition.
And I shine.
I hold conversations with ease. I charm.
I listen. I laugh at the right moments. I ask the right questions.
I make them feel seen, important, entertained.
His brothers warm to me quickly—I make sure of it.
I watch Sebastian notice. Watch the faint crease form between his brows as he realizes how seamlessly I fit.
Good.
Then the lights dim slightly. The music shifts.
The announcer calls for the first dance.
I don’t wait for him.
I take Sebastian’s hands and pull him toward the dance floor, forcing his arm around my waist, looping mine around his neck before he can object. My body presses into his, close enough to feel the tension vibrating through him.
I smile up at him.
He doesn’t smile back.
His expression is sharp now—curious, wary, threaded with warning. Like he’s waiting for the blade he knows is coming but can’t yet see.
We begin to move.
The song is slow, romantic, indulgent. I sway to it like I mean it, like this is something I’ve dreamed of instead of engineered. My cheek brushes his jaw. His hand settles more firmly at my waist, controlling and possessive.
I dance like the room belongs to me. Like every eye watching is exactly where it should be. I feel his breath shift, his focus fracture, the careful balance he maintains slipping just enough for me to notice.
He leans closer. “Careful, Sienna.”
I don’t respond. I keep dancing.
To everyone watching, we are perfect. A beautiful couple. Wealth, elegance, power wrapped in silk and diamonds. I let them have that illusion. Tonight is not about honesty. It’s about optics.
And for once, I actually feel…good.
Happy, even.
Not because I married Sebastian Rusnak, but because I know exactly what I’m doing.
When I first started looking for the best way to destroy him, Viktor Mikhailov’s name kept surfacing. Powerful. Connected. Vindictive. Apparently, I’m not the only one Sebastian has crossed. Viktor despises him, still nursing the humiliation Sebastian dealt him years ago.
Our partnership is simple. Convenient.