Sloane
I woke up sore.
Not the aching kind of sore from a workout or a hangover. This was deeper. The kind of sore that bloomed in your muscles and your skin for hours or even days on end. The kind that whispered you’ve been claimed thoroughly and completely. My ass still throbbed with every tiny movement. My thighs were sticky. I felt like I’d been poured into a new version of myself and left to set overnight.
Nikolai was already awake, of course.
He stood by the windows, shirtless, coffee in hand, looking out at the city like he owned it. Which, at this point, he might. The early light cast sharp lines across his chest and arms, and I let myself admire the view for a moment before he turned and caught me.
He smiled.
And fuck, that smile—it made me bite my lip as my toes curled.
“Time to get up, baby girl,” he said gently. “We’ve got a wedding to plan.”
My heart leapt and my stomach dropped in the same breath.
This was really happening.
I pushed the covers off slowly, slipping out of bed with a groan as the soreness settled deeper. Nikolai crossed the room to me and handed me a white box wrapped in black silk ribbon.
“What’s this?” I asked, fingers brushing over the silk.
“Something soft,” he said. “For this morning.”
Inside, nestled in white tissue, was a delicate wrap dress in the palest ivory silk. Soft, flowing, understated, but elegant in the same breath. It draped like water when I held it up. A belt cinched the waist. The neckline dipped low enough to entice and the hem floated mid-thigh.
It was elegant. Commanding. Effortless. Bridal.
I slid it on without question, the cool silk kissing every inch of my tender skin and let him fasten the sash around my waist. When I turned to face him, he stepped closer and brushed his knuckles along my jaw.
“I want everyone to know what they’re looking at when they see you today.”
I swallowed. “And what is that?”
“My bride.”
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the penthouse door.
He didn’t look away from me as he called, “Come in.”
The door opened, and two women stepped inside like they’d been here a hundred times before.
The first one was wearing an elegant pair of black cigarette pants and an oversized cream coat, her dark brunette hair in a sleek bun, her expression quietly curious. She looked like she belonged in an art gallery, sipping champagne while casually destroying reputations with her words. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, but she didn’t smile too wide. Just that soft, knowing curve of someone who’d been here before.
The second one was younger. Her dark red hair was loose and a little wild, her dress too pretty to be accidental. She looked at me with open mischief, but behind it was a sense of solidarity. Like she knew what it was like to stand in a room full of men and hold your ground.
Nikolai introduced us in his usual way: abruptly.
“Amy. Riley. This is Sloane. Sloane, Amy is my brother Aleksei’s fiancée and Riley is Maxim’s wife.”
I gave them a smile that felt too formal and then a nod that probably looked like a bow.
“Hi.”
Amy’s smile widened just enough. “We’ve heard a lot.”
Riley grinned. “We brought coffee. And opinions.”
I glanced at Nikolai. He just kissed my forehead.
“They’re taking you shopping,” he said. “I rented out the bridal floor at Vitale’s. It’s yours for the morning.”
I stared at him and I’m fairly certain my mouth was hanging open.
“You rented out an entire couture boutique?”
He smirked. “You think I’d settle for anything less?”
My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t argue.
He looked at Amy and Riley. “Find something perfect. She deserves the best.”
Then his gaze returned to mine, and something in his voice shifted, became softer, but just as seductive as it always was.
“I’ll see you in a few hours, my bride.”
Vitale’s bridal floor looked like a dream someone designed after drinking too much French champagne.
All ivory walls, soft golden light, and racks of dresses that glimmered like liquid moonlight. There were attendants waiting—young, polite, dressed in black—and a woman named Delphine who greeted us with a French accent so smooth I wasn’t entirely convinced it was real.
Nikolai had cleared the whole place out.
No cameras. No strangers. Just Amy, Riley, and me, and an entire floor of couture at our fingertips.
We’d barely stepped into the space before Riley clapped her hands. “Oh, my God! This is real. You’re actually doing this.”
Amy arched a brow with a smirk. “Big bad Nikolai, getting married in just a few hours. Can you believe it?”
I laughed—nervous and light—the sound bubbling out of me before I could help it. “Honestly? No.”
Riley grabbed a hanger off the first rack and held up a fitted satin number with a plunging neckline and feathers. “Okay, but imagine his face if you walked down the aisle in this.”
Amy made a noise of protest. “We’re not going full burlesque, Riley.”
“I’m just saying, Sloane is the one girl who could pull it off.”
I grinned and shook my head, already easing into the chaos. They were opposites: Amy elegant and refined, Riley bright and impulsive. Somehow, they worked together as a team, and for the first time since I’d agreed to marry one of the most dangerous men in Boston, I didn’t feel alone.
Delphine returned with a tray of champagne and sparkling water, and we got to work. I tried on dress after dress: silk, tulle, lace, and beading so fine it shimmered under the lights like dew. The mirror became a blur of white and motion. I turned, posed, let them ooh and ahh and giggle about how Nikolai would lose his mind the second I walked down the aisle.
But it wasn’t until I was alone in the fitting room, standing in front of the three-panel mirror entirely bare, that the buzz dulled for a moment and something sharper settled in my chest.
I turned slowly to the side, and there they were.
Several faint marks from the belt, right at the curve of my ass. Red, fading, but still clearly visible.
The memory flashed so vividly I swore I felt it again. The way his voice had sounded, deep and commanding, the way his hand had held me down, and how the strap had stung each time it had whipped my backside. Most of all, the way my tears had dried while he held me in his lap and told me he was proud of me.
I slipped back into my robe and stepped out, blinking against the light. Amy and Riley were waiting on the velvet sofa, sipping water and talking low. They both looked up when I entered.
“Okay,” Riley said. “You’ve tried on seven dresses. Spill. How are you feeling?”
I paused and smiled. “Honestly? Kind of… shocked.”
Amy tilted her head. “At what? The price tags or the fact that you’re about to become a Morozov?”
“Both,” I admitted, laughing. “Mostly that this is happening. I didn’t think I’d ever get married.”
“Neither of us did either,” Amy said, folding one leg over the other. “But here we are. I mean, you know Aleksei. He was like artsy boy Casanova and then boom: engaged. Now he reads art history books in bed with me and argues about postmodern sculpture while rubbing my feet.”
“That’s… kind of adorable.”
“It’s deeply confusing,” she replied with a smile. “But also? Really, really good.”
Riley nodded. “And Maxim? He’s mostly silent in public, but behind the scenes? Total domestic tyrant: breakfast made every morning, my favorite wine stocked. Every bill paid, every shoe fixed, every dinner handled. It’s like he’s running a small country, and I’m the only citizen.”
Amy leaned in with a little smile. “They’re strong men. Not easy in any way, but they take care of their women. Some might even say they spoil us,” she added with a wink.
My chest warmed and I swallowed around the tight feeling in my throat.
They didn’t say kept. They didn’t say controlled. They said taken care of.
And they meant it.
“I hope I get that too, but I don’t think I’ve found the dress just yet. I want to try on just a few more,” I ventured.
I tried on one more dress.
Delphine brought it out like she already knew it was the one. She whispered something in French before hanging it carefully on the gold hook, and Amy and Riley fell quiet when they saw it.
There wasn’t any beading or glitter or feathers. No corset or lace.
Just pure, elegant silk.
It was ivory—soft and warm—not the icy white that screamed tradition. The fabric shimmered faintly under the light like it had been kissed with moonlight. Strapless, it hugged the waist, curved over the hips, then fell in a long, clean line to the floor. The train was short. Intentional. Confident.
There was nothing to hide behind. No sparkle to distract from anything else.
It would just be me.
I stepped into it without speaking, the weight of it light, but somehow incredibly meaningful. The attendant zipped it carefully, smoothing it over my back, then left without a word. I stood there in front of the three-way mirror, bare feet on the cool marble floor, heart beating loud in my ears.
Then I strode out into the waiting room like a woman walking into a war with her chin lifted and her lips painted for battle.
Riley gasped when I stepped out. “Oh, my God.”
Amy just stood slowly. Her smile was small, but I saw it. Felt it.
“No veil,” she said. “Please, no veil. That’s not who you are. You’re Sloane Kingsley and you don’t need to hide behind anything.”
“Agreed,” Riley said, circling me like she was inspecting body armor for signs of weakness. “This is it. This is so it.”
Amy stepped closer and reached for the small ribbon at my waist, adjusting the tie gently. “You look like you already know how the story ends,” she said softly.
“I don’t,” I said. “But I know who I’m walking into it with.”
Riley grinned. “Damn right you do.”
We stood there for a moment longer, all three of us looking at the girl in the mirror.
“I’ll take this one,” I said.
The girl in the mirror smiled back at me.
When our car pulled up to the wedding venue, I couldn’t help but gasp at the grand estate Nikolai had chosen for the wedding. It was made of gorgeous roughhewn stone and tinted glass and it was three stories tall.
The bridal suite was on the top floor. It had pale marble floors and light blue walls with gold leaf crown molding. A sitting area with soft cream-colored furniture and velvet cushions. Long mirrors leaned against one wall, and a small white chaise had been placed at the center, draped with a robe and a note in Nikolai’s handwriting: Soon.
I stood in the center of the room in nothing but the lingerie Amy and Riley had picked out for me with the kind of gleeful mischief that warmed my heart.
The lingerie was sheer white lace, delicate but highly structured. The bodice was boned, hugging my waist in all the right ways, and the high-cut panties barely covered anything at all. The robe I slipped into was silk, ivory, long, and weightless. I ran my hands down the fabric, smoothing it against my hips.
The makeup team arrived shortly after, two women with cases full of brushes and palettes and gold-plated tweezers. They greeted me with practiced calm and the gentle touches of women who had done a hundred weddings and still knew how to make each bride feel like the center of the universe.
They started with my skin—serum, primer, foundation blended so perfectly it didn’t look like I was wearing anything at all. My lips were painted a soft rose; not red, not pink, but something in between. My cheeks glowed. My eyes were lined just enough to command attention. I barely recognized myself, and I didn’t hate it.
My hair was swept up into a loose, elegant chignon, strands softly curled, secured with hidden pins, a few wisps left to frame my face like I’d just woken up and looked perfect. Riley approved with a single nod. Amy offered a quiet smile and handed me a glass of champagne.
We didn’t talk about politics, the press, or what it meant to marry into a family like Nikolai’s. We just sat together and laughed a little. We talked about shoes and the kind of lace that made you feel expensive. The best lipstick that didn’t smudge when you were being kissed just hard enough.
I felt calm. Beautiful. Very much like a woman about to step into a different life.
The dress came last.
It glided over my curves like water. The neckline dipped down to my cleavage, but not too low. The train brushed the floor, following behind me like a shadow. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t see the mayor’s daughter.
I saw a bride.
There was a sharp knock at the door. I didn’t know how a knock could sound professional, but it did. I turned, expecting one of the planners or the coordinator for the processional cue.
Instead, a woman stepped in I didn’t recognize.
Late twenties, pretty, but fairly plain. Brown hair in a tight bun. A headset in her ear and a name badge I didn’t catch. She held a narrow white florist box in her hands and wore a smile that had clearly been rehearsed.
“Miss Kingsley?” she asked, just slightly breathless. “Sorry to interrupt. There’s a small issue with the groom’s boutonniere.”
I blinked. “What kind of issue?”
She stepped closer, flipping the box open to reveal two almost-identical white roses, one with a hint of pale green at the edge.
“The lighting in the ballroom is making the original pull green on camera. Your bouquet is warmer—cream-based—so it’s clashing. The photographer’s asking for a quick replacement. We just need your sign-off before it goes on him.”
Amy looked up from her seat. “We can handle it.”
The woman shook her head quickly, her smile never slipping. “I’m afraid it has to be the bride. The designer wants it logged in the photo credits. It’ll only take five minutes. We’ve got a cart around the side, so we don’t disturb the main aisle.”
“This was the sort of things that happened at weddings, right?” I asked the girls.
“I guess so?” Riley offered with a shrug. Amy did the same.
“I’ll be right back then,” I said with a sigh.
They nodded.
I followed the woman out of the suite, down the quiet hall lined with cream curtains and white peonies in pretty gold vases. My heels clicked softly against the tile. She walked a few steps ahead, speaking into her headset. I didn’t catch the words.
We went downstairs in an elevator and exited through a side door into the garden path. It was quieter out here, cool and fresh. The breeze caught my skirt and lifted it just enough to make me reach for it.
That’s when I saw the van.
Black. Plain. Unmarked.
Its back doors were wide open.
The woman turned.
Smiled again.
And then stepped aside.
Everything in me went still, like my nervous system short-circuited for half a second—one clean, glitched-out beat where nothing made sense. Then the alarms went off in my head.
“Wait!” I called, a rising sense of panic surging through me like a lightning strike.
My heels scraped against the stone. I turned, but I didn’t make it more than half a step before I was grabbed.
A heavy arm came around my waist—too strong, too fast. My hands went up to push, to fight, but I barely moved or got out a sound before something was pressed to my face. Cloth. Thick. Sweet-smelling. I tried to scream, but the inhale hit me like a truck. My throat closed. My knees buckled.
The woman didn’t flinch. She just watched.
My elbow shot back, wild and desperate and I made contact with something solid, maybe ribs, but it didn’t make a bit of difference. I was lifted off the ground and carried away. The van’s open doors rushed closer like a tunnel in a nightmare.
I kicked. Scratched. Bit down on the hand over my mouth and tasted skin and blood. It still didn’t matter.
The world tilted. The sun spun in the sky. And then I was inside.
Thrown hard against metal.
The doors slammed shut.
The last thing I heard before the darkness swallowed me whole was the sound of my own name being whispered through clenched teeth.
