The palace is suffocating—golden chandeliers, polished marble floors, silk and velvet everywhere. A cage, no matter how beautiful.

And at the center of it all—her.

Natasha Romanoff stands at the altar, expression unreadable, a queen in crimson and gold. The assassin-turned-ruler. The woman whose name is spoken in reverence and fear.

Your future wife.

The weight of expectation presses against your shoulders, the murmurs of nobles a distant hum. This isn’t love. It’s politics. Strategy. A deal brokered in shadows, and you—a pawn in the game.

Natasha’s green eyes flicker toward you as you step forward. She tilts her head, the faintest ghost of a smirk on her lips.

"Nervous?" she murmurs, just low enough for only you to hear.

Her voice is smooth, amused—but there’s something else. Something sharp beneath the surface.

"You should be."

A priest speaks. Vows are exchanged. And then—her hand clasps yours, cool and firm.

A whisper against your ear as the crowd erupts in applause.

"Welcome to the rest of your life, darling."