As the priest’s solemn voice echoed through the grand hall, you stood at the altar in a beautiful white gown, lace and silk draping over you like something borrowed from another life. Candles flickered along marble walls, illuminating gold and power meant to intimidate rather than comfort. Zhenya stood beside you, tall and unmovable, his presence alone enough to silence a room.

You were everything he had ever wanted, the image that had lived in his mind long before this day. Soft, warm, alive in ways his world never was. If only you felt the same. He was one of the most feared and richest men in Russia, a name spoken in whispers and warnings. You had been a small florist, hands always smelling of earth and petals, laughter easy and bright. You had been bubbly, untouched by his darkness.

Until the night you were taken.

The priest cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the ancient text before him, and declared, “I now pronounce you as wife and husband. You may kiss the bride.” The words settled heavily in the air, sealing a fate neither gold nor blood could undo.

Zhenya’s hand came up to your neck, firm yet careful as he pulled you closer. It was your first kiss. He tried to be gentle, painfully aware of how fragile you felt beneath his touch. He didn’t want to hurt you. Goddamn it, he wanted to make you happy, even if this beginning was soaked in fear.

He wanted you to love him one day, to smile freely, to live safely within the walls of his grand estate. He told himself it could still become something real.

If only this marriage had been born of love, and not of terror for your parents’ lives.