The scent of roses was too sweet.

Not the real kind—this was imported, perfumed, meticulously arranged. I hated them.

I adjusted the cuffs of my black Brioni tuxedo, gold cufflinks glinting under the chandeliers of Château du Verchant. France. Why France? I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. When my father tells me I’m getting married, I don’t argue. Not because I’m weak. But because I know how power works. I’ve held it in bloodied hands, I’ve enforced it with bullets. This? This was just another move on the board.

“She’s seventeen,” my cousin Alexei had said with a smirk last week, leaning back in my office in Moscow, cigar between his teeth. “But her father’s rich. Filthy rich. French aristocrat type. Old money. He’s giving us a network in Paris, and access to the airport lanes. It’s a win.”

I nodded. My father made the arrangement. The Valois family wanted their daughter gone—too much liability, too delicate, maybe a scandal waiting to happen. Their reasons weren’t mine to question. And I didn’t care. My only condition had been: I don’t want a wife who cries every time I raise my voice. I don’t want a puppet.

They said she was shy. Soft-spoken. But not a coward.

We’ll see.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

The cathedral bells tolled like iron thunder, shaking through the limestone walls of the estate. I stepped out of the vintage black Rolls-Royce with Alexei and two of my men flanking me. My mother, Katerina Volkov, already stood at the entrance, regal in a navy velvet gown, eyes like sharpened steel. She kissed my cheek and smoothed my lapel.

“You look like your father on his wedding day.”

I didn’t answer.

Inside, the cathedral was a palace of white and gold. Marble columns soared into painted ceilings. Candles flickered in tall candelabras, and hundreds of guests whispered in awe. The Volkov family sat on the left side, a sea of black suits and high cheekbones. On the right: the French. The Valois family. Fine-boned and brittle-looking. Too many powdered faces. Too much perfume.

And then she entered.

Her gown was long-sleeved silk, ivory with soft beading along the hem, modest but elegant. Her veil didn’t hide her face completely; I saw, curious eyes, the color of dark honey.A slight tremble in her hand as she clutched her bouquet.

Our eyes met.

She looked away first.

I smirked. Good girl.

The ceremony was in French, then Russian. Vows written for us by lawyers, edited by my mother and her father. Raeema’s lips moved softly when she repeated them, voice like a whisper. She didn’t look at me while saying them. I watched her the whole time.

I said my vows clearly, firmly. Took her hand—small, cold, trembling—but I didn’t squeeze too hard. I wanted to see if she would flinch.

She didn’t.

Our rings slid on easily. Hers was platinum, with the Volkov crest etched inside.

When the priest pronounced us husband and wife, the applause was scattered. Hers didn’t smile and Mine didn’t need to. Power doesn’t clap.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

The reception was an opulent affair. White silk canopies above the marble garden, musicians playing a slow quartet. Russian caviar. Foie gras. Honey-glazed duck. A ten-tier wedding cake that looked more like a sculpture.

I didn’t eat much. I drank vodka, clean and cold.

She sat beside me, barely touching her plate. Her posture was straight, too straight—like she’d been trained for this. Maybe she had.