Chapter 5 – Sofia #3
His family fills the pews. And none of my family is present. Lukyan asked, but I insisted I didn’t want them around. He didn’t ask questions.
The garden setup is beautiful. Exactly the kind of ceremony I would have chosen for myself if circumstances were different.
White flowers line the aisle.
Soft music drifts through the garden.
Rows of chairs are filled with familiar faces. The Rusnaks. Their wives. The women are waving at me, huge smiles on their faces. I smile back, grateful I was a little familiar with them before now. It makes everything easier.
My gaze lifts to the front.
And finds him immediately.
Lukyan stands beside the priest.
Waiting.
He’s dressed in a black suit that looks tailored for him. The dark fabric contrasts sharply with his pale skin, making his gray eyes seem even colder.
Even from a distance, he looks composed.
Controlled.
As though this is simply another responsibility he intends to carry out successfully.
Then his eyes meet mine.
Something strange happens inside my chest.
My stomach hollows unexpectedly.
I hate it.
I hate that my body notices him at all.
I hate that he’s unfairly handsome.
I hate that I remember exactly how those gray eyes looked when he told me my future had already been decided.
The music swells softly.
Someone touches my arm.
I realize it’s time to walk.
My legs move before my brain fully catches up.
One step.
Then another.
The aisle stretches before me.
I focus on the path ahead, trying not to think about what waits at the end of it.
But every few seconds, my gaze drifts back to him.
And every time, he’s already looking at me.
Watching.
Waiting.
By the time I finally reach him, my pulse is racing.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then Lukyan extends his hand. After the smallest hesitation, I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
Completely certain.
And before I can overthink it, he’s guiding me into place beside him as the ceremony begins.
Thankfully, it doesn’t drag on.
I spend most of it trying not to think about the fact that I am standing beside a man I barely know while a priest binds our lives together with a few carefully chosen words.
The vows come.
The signatures.
The blessings.
And then it’s over.
Just like that.
One moment, I’m Sofia Morozova.
The next, according to a piece of paper and the laws of several countries, I’m Sofia Rusnak.
The thought makes me slightly nauseous.
What surprises me most is when the priest closes his book and announces us husband and wife without ever asking Lukyan to kiss me.
I don’t know if someone deliberately removed that part of the ceremony or if the priest simply sensed that neither of us would appreciate the spectacle.
Either way, relief rushes through me.
The last thing I want is to be forced into a kiss in front of an audience.
Especially with him.
The guests begin applauding.
I barely hear them.
My mind is still trying to catch up to what just happened.
Then Lukyan reaches for my hand.
My attention drops to where our fingers touch.
His hand completely swallows mine. They’re large and cold. I suppress a shiver.
“Let me introduce you to my family.”
I glance up at him. “I’ve already met half of them.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “As Valeria’s best friend, yes?”
“Yes.”
His gray eyes settle on mine.
For a second, something unreadable moves across his expression.
Then he says, very calmly, “You’re my wife now.”
The words hit a nerve immediately.
Before I can stop myself, irritation flares hot and sharp.
Of course.
Of course, he would say it like that.
As if marriage somehow rewrites my entire identity.
As if the last twenty-three years of my life disappeared the moment I signed a document.
He starts guiding me toward the reception canopy where the rest of the Rusnaks are gathered. They’re laughing and talking as they wait for us.
I stop walking. My heel digs into the ground. Lukyan takes another step before realizing I am no longer moving. He pauses and slowly turns back toward me. The music and conversations around us continue, but for a moment they feel very far away.
I yank my hand from his grip. His eyes narrow slightly.
“I am not a possession.”
The words leave me before I can reconsider them.
He purses his lips.
“I’m not one of your businesses. I’m not one of your investments. And I’m certainly not some woman you can drag around because a priest said a few words.”
His expression remains frustratingly calm. That only makes me angrier.
“You call me your wife like it’s supposed to mean something magical. It doesn’t.” I take a breath. My heart is pounding. “I still didn’t choose this. This is a strategic involvement. Nothing emotional about this.”
The silence stretches between us.
Then he inclines his head once. “Very well, wife.”
The title should irritate me.
Instead, the way he says it almost sounds like a concession.
Like he’s acknowledging my anger rather than dismissing it.
I still hate it.
But for the first time since meeting him, I don’t feel like screaming. Which, considering the circumstances, probably counts as progress.