Chapter 5 – Ellie
The wedding is intimate but political, every seat filled with the Bratva hierarchy and powerful men observing.
I don’t recognize more than half of them as I walk down the aisle, but there are a few familiar faces, mostly from the rare Rusnak events I’ve attended courtesy of Raelyn. I try not to involve myself with the Bratva, and the few times I did go, it was only because Raelyn cajoled me into it.
It’s strange, almost surreal, that I’m seconds away from saying “I do” to one of them.
I focus on keeping my eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at Mike as I approach the altar.
Soft music fills my ears. My flower bouquet is my favorite, lilies, and I suspect Raelyn had a hand in choosing them. Mike would never know my favorite flowers.
I pass Samantha and Adrian. Their faces are wide with shock. I can almost feel what they’re thinking. Three days ago, we were arguing about my pathological organization and Professor Ben’s sweater, and now I’m walking down the aisle.
I don’t know how much they understand about the Bratva, but I wish I could hug them. Especially Samantha, who looks completely lost. Poor girl.
Finally, I reach the altar and stand before my soon-to-be prison warden slash husband.
I can’t deny that he looks handsome, even though I hate him. He stands tall, the black suit hugging his body perfectly, exuding control and authority.
The priest clears his throat, voice steady and commanding, and begins.
“We are gathered here today to witness the union of two people, not only of hearts but of families, loyalty, and protection. Marriage is a bond built on trust, responsibility, and honor. Let all who are present bear witness to the promises these two will make.”
I swallow hard, gripping my lilies tighter. My chest tightens at the briefest flicker of his icy blue eyes, sharp and unreadable. I hate him. I hate this. And yet something dark and dangerous twists inside me, something I can’t name.
The priest continues, “Michael Rusnak, do you take Ellie Carver to be your lawfully wedded wife, to protect her, honor her, and keep her safe through all trials life may bring?”
Mike’s gaze remains locked on me, unflinching, controlled, and in that moment I feel everything—anger, fear, and something else I can’t define—collide inside me.
“I do,” he says, low. Every word drips with authority, with ownership.
When I repeat the vows, my voice is clipped, tense. “I do.” It doesn’t feel like a vow of love. It feels like surrender, a calculated move to survive.
The ceremony is over in moments. I’m glad they skipped the kissing. I’ll never touch my lips to his willingly. Never.
The priest steps aside, murmuring congratulations, while the guests applaud politely, some with curiosity, some with subtle nods of respect.
The hall feels impossibly full, every face a silent acknowledgment of the new reality: I am Mike Rusnak’s bride. A statement. A declaration. A warning.
We descend the steps together. My heels click against the marble, but my mind is elsewhere. Every instinct screams to push him, to shove, to break the hold this day has over me.
“Didn’t you say it’s a small wedding?” I whisper, voice tight.
“Solntse, this is small,” he replies, his tone calm but firm.
Solntse? The word rolls off his tongue. It’s unfamiliar, yet there’s a warmth and intensity in the way he says it. My pulse spikes.
He leans closer, voice soft. “Now everyone knows you are my bride. No one will dare mark you again. To attack you now would mean a direct confrontation with the Rusnaks.”
I hiss between my teeth. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want out. I want my life back.”
He smiles, a slow, controlled curl of his lips that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to my brothers and their families. It’s important.”
I grit my teeth as I walk beside him, each step heavy.
The introductions are surprisingly brief, even though we’re not complete strangers. As always, the other wives are warm and polished, exchanging compliments that make me crack the tiniest of smiles despite myself.
I manage a quiet moment with Samantha and Adrian.
They hug me, quick congratulations, no questions asked.
Relief washes over me. Samantha whispers that she’ll handle everything while I’m away and that I should focus on myself for now.
My chest tightens, a tear threatening to escape.
She’s always playful, lazy even, but she’s smart, dependable, and somehow, just being reminded she has my back is grounding.
Shortly after, we move to the reception.
The venue is softer. Every surface is adorned with fresh lilies, and delicate decor flickers against mirrored tables.
The air smells faintly of jasmine, mingling with the crisp scent of white roses.
Guests chatter and laugh, swirling champagne in tall flutes, the clink of glass punctuating the music.
It’s surreal. People are dancing, smiling, enjoying themselves, and I feel like I’m burning from the inside. My hands clutch the bouquet a little too tightly as I drift past them, a phantom in celebration.
I’m grateful when Raelyn finds me after the couple’s dance. She tugs my hand gently, eyes full of warmth and mischief. “Hey, come sit.”
I nod, letting her lead me to a quiet corner, thankful for the one familiar, grounding presence in this whirlwind of silk, lilies, and power.
When she presses me into a chair, I don’t complain. She sits across from me.
We’re both at a loss for words.
Days ago, when she’d come to see me, we didn’t cry. Unlike the time she told me about her forced marriage to Konstantin. Back then, tears had fallen freely, but this time, we just sat, she quietly trying to placate me while I raged and cursed.
“There’s nothing you can do right now,” she had said. “Your safety is the only thing that matters. After that…then you can think about divorce.”
Honestly, that’s the only reason I’m holding on, the thought that maybe one day, when this is all over, I can divorce Mike.
Raelyn leans forward, eyes soft. “Are you okay?”
I nod, forcing the lie. “I’m fine.”
She smiles, the corners of her lips teasing. “For what it’s worth, you look very beautiful.”
I laugh and swat her hand. “Shut up.”
She doesn’t back down. “So…how’s your relationship with Mike at the moment?”
I hiss through my teeth. “What relationship? We haven’t spoken in three days. Not until I met him at the altar.”
I see the worry flash across her face, but I wave it off. “And don’t worry, Raelyn. I don’t judge you for falling for Konstantin, but that’ll never be me. I’ll never fall for a man who took my choice away and put me in this position.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly but still warm. “Don’t worry. Divorce is always on the table. Just make sure the threat is neutralized first.”
We’re not alone for long. Soon, the other wives join us, and the conversation turns sweet and friendly. I find myself laughing for the first time in days.
Apparently, they all have a group chat where they curse their husbands out, and they promise to add me to it as soon as I get a new phone.
I warn them to prepare to read me cussing out Mike every single day.
They laugh, saying the Rusnak men are all terribly possessive and annoying, so they’re guilty of cursing out their husbands just as much.
The reception stretches into the night, but a pit of dread fills my stomach as we head home in the car.
We sit in the backseat, and every nerve in me is hyperaware of every move he makes.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch me. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, yet the tension pulses between us with every turn of the wheels.
I force my mind elsewhere, trying to calm the storm inside me, but my body refuses.
I can feel him beside me, controlled and restrained, yet radiating the same authority and danger that has haunted me for days.
I clutch my hands together in my lap, willing myself not to react, willing myself to survive this night.
The city lights blur past, but I notice the way his eyes glance toward me occasionally. Each time, my heart hammers. I hate it, I hate him, and yet part of me…can’t look away.
We arrive home and climb the grand staircase. I’m about to turn toward my suite when Mike stops me.
“We’re not sleeping apart,” he says. “Your things have been moved to my suite.”
I frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He tilts his head. “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d know. Married couples don’t sleep apart. The staff will notice. They’ll talk. We don’t want that to spread.”
He’s right.
But still….
I scoff. “We’re only married on paper. I don’t acknowledge it.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he studies me with that unreadable, intense gaze. “You must be tired. Rein in your temper, come in, shower. I had one of my staff get you a full wardrobe of nightwear.”
The thought is tempting. The idea of shedding this dress for something simple, soft, comforting…it tugs at me.
I follow him into the suite.
The room is immense. Marble floors gleam under the soft chandelier light.
Velvet drapes frame tall windows overlooking the garden, the city beyond sparkling like scattered diamonds.
Expensive, understated furniture—deep leather chairs, polished wood tables—marks a space that is both luxurious and cold, the kind of wealth that radiates power and control.
Every surface, every detail, whispers order, authority, and a subtle intimidation I can’t escape.
I walk toward the window and stare down at the garden below, trying to focus on anything other than the man behind me. I feel him moving, deliberate and quiet, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. Even without turning, I warn him.
“I hope you know I won’t let you touch me.”
I turn slowly when he chuckles. It’s a low, knowing sound that makes my stomach twist.
He removes his jacket slowly. “I won’t touch you unless you ask.”
But the edge in his voice betrays him—he wants to. He wants to touch me.
The air between us thickens.
He steps close, close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin. His fingers trace the edge of my jaw lightly, like a question. I tremble but don’t pull away.
“Afraid?” he murmurs.
“Of you? Always.” I mean to snap, but my voice is a breathless whisper. I curse myself inwardly.
Heat builds in my chest, in my skin. Every nerve alive. And yet, he steps back deliberately, giving me space. Control.
Then—suddenly—glass shatters in the hallway. The sound cracks through the suite like a gunshot.
I jerk back instinctively. His eyes snap to the source, sharp, cold, and lethal.
“Stay here,” he orders, voice clipped, as he marches toward the door.
Like hell I will. I move before I think, following impulsively as he pushes the door open. I peek from behind him, my pulse hammering.
In the hallway, chaos reigns. A woman is tearing through the space, her hands slamming into expensive sculptures, sending shards of marble and glass clattering across the polished floor.
She’s tall, impossibly beautiful, every inch of her exuding wealth and power, but her rage makes her almost unrecognizable.
I don’t know who she is, but obviously, Mike does.
Security guards swarm her, trying to restrain her, but she moves like a tempest, dodging them with a terrifying grace.
Mike’s jaw tightens. He steps forward, hands flexing at his sides, every motion controlled. He grabs her arm with a firm, unyielding grip. “Leave. Now.”
She spits back, fury and venom in her voice. “You’re going to regret this marriage.”
“I won’t tell you to leave again. Don’t make me force you!”
The lady growls, “You’ll regret this!”
Her gaze snaps toward me, blazing with contempt, before she storms off, leaving the shattered sculptures in her wake.
Mike waves to the security team. “Clean this up. Secure the floor.”
He turns back and strides toward the suite door. I follow silently, entering the quiet after the storm. He steps in behind me.
“Jealous ex?” I ask, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
He smirks faintly, just a twitch of lips. “You’d be surprised how many women want me.”
I lift my chin, stubborn. “I will never be one of them.”
His expression darkens, sharp and dangerous, and his voice drops low. “That’s what you think.”