"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Are you ready, my lady?"
Viktor's voice, low and tempered with the weight of both impatience and concern, carries through the room like a slow, deliberate tide, each word an anchor. His presence is a solid thing—unyielding and steady—cutting through the haze of my nerves. The door swings open, and he steps in, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the candlelight spilling from the hallway. His eyes, dark pools of unreadable intensity, catch mine as he watches me, waiting for a response that I cannot find within me.
I turn toward the mirror one last time, the cold, silver-framed reflection of myself—a woman poised, exquisite, a stranger wrapped in my skin. The woman staring back at me is every inch the vision of grace I was meant to embody. The wine-red gown clings to my body like it was designed to follow every curve, each seam an echo of my own fleeting elegance. It's as though the fabric itself knows the weight of the occasion, holding me in its silken embrace as if to shield me from the storm brewing inside.
My earrings catch the light, diamonds that wink at the world with their whispered opulence, a perfect contrast to the storm raging beneath my skin. I see the makeup I've applied with surgical precision—the crimson lips that speak of confidence and defiance, the smoky eyes that hold untold secrets. The cat eyeliner, sharp and deliberate, draws a line between who I am and who I must be, an artifice in every stroke.
Yet, no amount of makeup or fabric can disguise what lies beneath. I stand before this mirror, and what I see isn't a woman in command of her life—it's a woman on the edge of something she cannot control. My gaze flickers back to the reflection, but it isn't the soft curve of my neck or the gleam of my jewelry I notice. It's the eyes—dark, hollow, an echo of despair I cannot banish. There is a mourning within me, a grief I have long buried beneath layers of duty and pretense.
I know what this night is, what it means. A union. A contract. A cage gilded in luxury. My hands, trembling ever so slightly, rest against the cold surface of the vanity, as if the touch of something tangible might ground me in a reality that feels more and more like a dream I cannot wake from. The thought that I will soon be bound to Lorenzo—this man, this stranger—sinks into me like a stone dropped into an abyss. Love, that elusive thing, drifts further from my reach, leaving only the shadow of what might have been.
