Sofia
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom of the penthouse and stare at my reflection.
The dress is black—deliberately, defiantly black.
Not the ivory gown I used to dream about when I was little.
Not the flowing white dress my mother and I would talk about when we planned my princess wedding.
The wedding that definitely included me marrying a handsome prince.
That was back when I believed in good men and happily ever afters.
And then she died. I was assaulted. And everything after that night has been about staying alive.
This isn’t that wedding.
This is a strategic alliance wrapped in legal paperwork and empty vows.
So I wear black.
The dress is simple. Elegant, I suppose, if I’m being generous. It hits just above my knees, fitted through the bodice with long sleeves that cover my arms. Modest. Appropriate for a woman entering a marriage that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with survival.
I’m wearing the simple, easy to run in black ballet flats I picked out. They’re symbolic. I’m ready to run up until the moment I step into this marriage.
I reach for my mother’s earrings. The small diamond studs she wore every day. The ones my father gave to me after she died. It was one of the only things of hers I was allowed to keep. My father had her things cleared out before the funeral. Including most of the pictures of her.
My hands shake as I put them in.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper to my reflection. “This isn’t what we talked about.”
I can almost hear her voice. Soft. Kind. So different from my father’s harsh commands.
It’s okay, sweetheart. You do what you need to do to survive.
Would she understand? Would she hate that I’m marrying a man I barely know? A dangerous man from the world she tried to keep me out of.
Or would she be relieved that someone is finally protecting me the way my father never did?
I blink back the tears that threaten to fall. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the luxury of grief or sentimentality. I made my choice. Now I have to live with it.
I take one last look in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looks older than twenty-one. Harder. The scared girl who got dragged into an alley three years ago is gone. In her place is someone who knows how to fight. How to survive.
How to make deals with devils.
I leave the bedroom and walk into the main living area. The penthouse is quiet. Very un-wedding like.
Sergei is standing with Kirill. They’re both wearing dark suits. Sergei’s is perfectly tailored, fitting his broad shoulders and tall frame like it was made for him. Which it probably was. His back is to me. He looks tense. He holds himself like a man preparing for battle.
Maybe he is.
Maybe we both are.
Nelson is near the door, looking uncomfortable in his suit. He catches my eye and gives me a small, encouraging smile. Like this is all perfectly normal.
If I allowed myself to think about it, I would be sad. Sad that I’m getting married with no family or friends to witness it. Nelson is the closest thing to a friend I have here.
And that is most definitely sad.
A priest sits on the couch. I think he’s a priest. I honestly don’t know. He’s older, gray-haired and wearing traditional vestments. He looks bored. I wonder how much Sergei paid him to come here and perform this ceremony without asking questions.
Probably a lot.
Sergei turns when he hears my footsteps. His eyes sweep over me, taking in the black dress. I see something flash across his face—surprise? Disapproval? I wait for his reaction.
Instead, his expression smooths into that infuriating neutral mask he wears so well.
“Sofia,” he says. Just my name. Nothing else.
I stop a few feet away from him. “Sergei.”
We stare at each other. A silent standoff.
I see the determination in his eyes. Control. A man who’s made up his mind and won’t be swayed.
I see myself reflected back at me.
“We should begin,” the priest says, clearly wanting to get this over with.
I don’t move. Neither does Sergei.
“Did you tell your father?” he asks quietly.
“No. We agreed not to.”
“Good.”
I hate that he approves. I don’t trust my father. I don’t trust that he wouldn’t tell Yuri. I don’t think he would allow the marriage to happen. He would kill me to stop it.
My father made it clear I’m on my own. So, I’m on my own.
“Ready?” Sergei asks.
No. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready for this.
“Yes,” I lie.
We move to stand in front of the priest. Sergei is on my right, close enough that I can smell his cologne. For a second, I’m back in that alley.
Why?
It’s his cologne.
I turn to look at him. I remember the faces of my attackers. They used to haunt me at night. Now, they only show up after a stressful day.
“Sofia,” he says my name, low and deep.
I can’t catch my breath.
“Sofia.”
His hand takes mine. Every muscle in my arm goes rigid. But he doesn't squeeze. Doesn't move. Just holds. I blink. The warmth grounds me.
I inhale and slowly let the breath out.
I jerk my hand away. “I’m fine.”
I refuse to lose my shit. I can do this.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter.
The priest begins. His voice is monotone, reciting words I’ve heard at other weddings. Words about commitment and partnership and joining together.
Blah, blah, blah.
This isn’t about love or commitment. It’s two people using each other to get what they need.
“The rings,” the priest says.
Kirill steps forward and hands Sergei a simple platinum band. It’s beautiful in its simplicity. No diamonds. No engravings. Just a smooth circle of metal.
Sergei takes my left hand. I force myself not to pull away.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he says.
He slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. He had Nelson get my ring size the other day.
Kirill hands me a matching band. I take Sergei’s hand and repeat the words.
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
I slide the ring onto his finger. It looks strange there. Wrong. Like I’m marking him as mine when we both know this is just performance.
The priest continues. More words. More empty promises about sickness and health and till death do us part.
Till death.
That’s the only part that feels real. This marriage ends when one of us dies. No divorce. No escape clause. And if my cousin has his way, my death will happen far sooner than I’d care for.
For better or worse, I’m bound to Sergei Sokolov until one of us is in the ground.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest says. He looks at Sergei. “You may kiss the bride.”
I tense. We didn’t discuss this part. I assumed—hoped—we’d skip it.
But Sergei steps closer. I tilt my head back to glare at him. To silently communicate that if he tries anything, I will make him regret it.
He leans down, his mouth close to my ear. Close enough that I feel his breath on my skin.
“This is part of the deal,” he whispers. “Be a good girl and convince this priest you love me.”
I want to argue. Want to push him away and tell him the deal didn’t include him touching me.
But he’s right. This is a wedding. Weddings end with a kiss.
And I agreed to this.
I close my eyes and wait.
His lips touch mine. Soft. Brief. Nothing like what I expected from a man like him.
It’s over before I can process what’s happening.
When I open my eyes, he’s already pulling away. His expression is unreadable. That same stoic look that seems to be a permanent thing.
“Congratulations,” the priest says, though he sounds like he couldn’t care less.
Kirill shakes Sergei’s hand. Nelson looks like he wants to congratulate me but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.
And just like that, it’s done.
I’m Sofia Sokolov.
The name feels foreign. Wrong. Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
The priest leaves quickly, probably eager to forget this strange, cold ceremony.
“Give us a moment,” Sergei says to Nelson and Kirill.
They disappear into the foyer.
And then we’re alone.
Husband and wife.
I look down at the ring on my finger. A shackle.
“Are you okay?” Sergei asks.
The question surprises me. I expected him to launch into logistics. Security protocols. Rules for our new arrangement.
I don’t expect him to ask if I’m okay.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re not.”
I look up at him. “What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled to be married to a man I don’t know? That this is everything I dreamed of?”
“I want you to be honest.”
“Fine. I feel like I’ve been backed into a corner with no way out.” I cross my arms. “Honest enough for you?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he nods slowly. “Yes.”
“Your turn,” I say. “How do you feel about this?”
“I don’t.”
I stare at him, waiting for more. Waiting for something that resembles an actual human emotion.
He doesn’t give me one.
“We’re going to the restaurant for our reception,” he says instead, shifting seamlessly into business mode. “Some of the heads of the other families will be there. We need to make sure we’re seen together.”
“How romantic,” I mutter.
He ignores the sarcasm. “From this point on, you don’t leave without me or one of my men. Not to the corner store. Not to class. Nowhere. A guard will be with you around the clock.”
“I know that,” I snap. “I’m not an idiot. That’s the whole point of this arrangement, remember? Your protection.”
“Good. Then we understand each other.” He looks at my dress again, and this time I definitely see disapproval. “Go change.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The dress. Change it. My wife is not going to look like Morticia Addams at our reception.”
Heat floods my face. Anger mixed with something else I don’t want to name. “I’ll wear whatever I want.”
“Not tonight, you won’t.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to wear.”
“Actually,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous low tone, “I do. We just signed a contract that says you’re under my protection. That means you follow my rules. And my first rule is that you don’t attend our wedding celebration looking like you’re attending a funeral.”
I step closer to him, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. I’m furious. Shaking with it. “This is a funeral. The death of my freedom. The death of any illusion I had that I could handle this on my own. So I’m keeping it on.”
We’re standing toe to toe now. I can feel the heat radiating off him. See the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Sofia— “
“No.” I cut him off. “I didn’t agree to become your dress-up doll. I’ll wear whatever I damn well choose.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I watch him process my words. I wait for the fight.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Keep the dress.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “What?”
“Keep the dress. Wear it to dinner. Make whatever statement you want to make.” He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to mine.
“But understand this—every decision you make from now on affects both of us. Your safety is my responsibility. Your reputation reflects on me. When you walk into that restaurant as my wife, people will see us as a unit. So if you want to wear black and look miserable, that’s your choice.
But don’t be surprised when people start asking questions. ”
He straightens and walks toward the foyer, then pauses. “Nelson will pack up your things from the penthouse and deliver them to my house. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
My house. Not our house. His house.
I watch him disappear through the doorway and feel a petty surge of satisfaction. I won this round. Small victory, but I’ll take it.
I head back to the bedroom to grab my purse and check my makeup. The face staring back at me in the mirror looks defiant. Good. That’s exactly what I’m going for.
When I walk back out, all three men turn to look at me. Sergei’s expression is unreadable as always. Kirill looks amused. Nelson just looks uncomfortable.
“Ready?” Sergei asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
He holds out his arm. I stare at it for a second before reluctantly taking it. His muscles are solid beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. He’s warm. I hate that I notice.
We take the elevator down in silence. There’s an SUV waiting at the curb with two more men I don’t recognize in the front seats. Sergei opens the back door for me. I slide in, and he follows.
Kirill and Nelson take a second vehicle.
I stare out the window, trying not to think about my wedding night. He demanded the kiss. What else would he demand?
“What now?” Sergei asks.
“What?” I ask.
“Your jaw gets tight when you’re working through something.”
I do clench my jaw when I’m stressed. It gives me terrible headaches. “You’ve been watching me that closely?”
“I’ve been watching you for a long time, Sofia.”
There it is again. That admission that he’s been surveilling me. Tracking my movements. Knowing things about me I never gave him permission to know.
“That’s creepy,” I say.
“That’s protection.”
“No, protection is standing between a bullet and me. What you’ve been doing is stalking.”
He almost smiles. “Call it what you want. It kept you alive.”
I want to argue, but he’s not wrong. If his men hadn’t been there at the park, at the club, I’d probably be dead.
I hate that I keep finding reasons to agree with him.