Wearing black feels like the best revenge for being forced to marry to Roman Volkov.
I’d rather die. Like I should’ve died from the cold and the heat.
It’s a shame no one’s going to be there. I didn’t care about the press covering my first wedding, but I’d gladly pay a bunch of them to be at this one. He’d never outlive the whispers—the bride wearing black with a bouquet of funeral flowers.
My fist curls tightly around the fabric of the dress’s skirt as I stare at my reflection in the mirror—unblinking. The black dress clings to me like smoke, like mourning. My lips are painted a bold, violent red—not the shade of romance and attraction, but war.
Polina knocks on the door before entering my room. She’s always neutral, but she looks more somber today.
“Miss Ricci,” she says, holding out a veil. It’s black, but transparent. I wouldn’t have cared if it was so dark that every step I took toward the altar was a stumble.
Maybe I should look for something that’ll make me trip over my feet and bash my head against the floor. Maybe I’ll die as quickly as my ex-fiancé did.
“No.” I grit my teeth as my fingers dig into my palm through the dress. I don’t want to die. I want to stay alive—for the sheer purpose of revenge.
Roman walked into the house two hours ago, storming into my room. My body still carried the memory of last night…when he cradled me against his chest, touched my cheek tenderly, and made love to me like I was his.
No. He fucked me. There was nothing gentle about the bruises he left on my collarbone and my hips. I can still feel him through the throbbing deep inside me and my weak knees.
Then he said, “We’re getting married.”
Like he was making casual conversation.
I couldn’t believe it. “Married?”
He nodded. “Yes. Married. You’re to be my wife, remember? It should’ve happened in that order. You take my last name and give me a child.”
My jaw dropped. In that order? I had thought it was lust. That we were two people who wanted each other so much that logic and self-restraint didn’t matter. At least, I had wanted him so badly I couldn’t think.
But to Roman, we’d gone against his carefully crafted plan.
My body turned ice-cold, a stark reminder that I was a pawn to him. Not human—blood and flesh. He took me because I served a purpose—to show my father that he’d taken over his bloodline.
And when I refused, he said, “Fine. I’ll give you to one of the many men your father sold you to. You might think marriage to me is a terrible fate, but with them, you’ll beg for death. You’ll end up dying alongside your father.”
So I agreed.
Not because I was scared. No. I need to live. I’m getting married to Roman Volkov because I need to buy more time to escape. When I do, I’ll come back with so much fury that I’ll burn him till there’s nothing left of him.
Not even his ashes.
“Thank you,” I mutter as Polina stretches her hands out, silently reminding me that I’ve forgotten to take the veil. It’s a short one with a clip, and I place it in the middle of my hair, pushing it away from my shoulders.
Two weddings. In a month. Neither of them voluntary. Both of them—directly or indirectly—caused by my father.
Did he really sell me off?
The Glazastov family was one thing, but other men? I snatch the veil off my head, tossing it away in anger, but it only floats out of my reach, drifting in the air for a few seconds before it touches the floor.
“Fuck!” I grab a brush and hurl it at the mirror. It cracks.
“Miss Ricci!” Polina gasps, horrified.
“Tell me—” I turn to her as my chest heaves. “What do you think about your boss? Do you like working for him? Do you find it easy working for a man who kidnaps women and forces them to marry him?”
She looks away, but I’m relentless, needing somewhere to direct my anger. “Look at me, Polina,” I rage. “You’ve been living here for years. Do you turn a blind eye to his activities, telling yourself that your only concern is your job? Do you even have a conscience?”
How? How does anyone stand it? I’m barely a month in and already losing my mind.
“Mr. Volkov is a good man,” she mutters.
I throw my head back in loud, mocking, mirthless laughter. “Good man?” I scoff. “You know he belongs to the bratva, don’t you? They kill people. They slaughter men in cold blood. How do you justify what’s good?” I ask her.
“I—I…” she stammers. “I should go. Mr. Volkov needs me.”
As she hurries out of my room, I grab the brush again, hurling it at the door when it closes, missing her by a few inches. That—the fact that I could’ve hurt her—is enough to sober me up.
“Jesus,” I groan, dragging my fingers through my hair. It took me a while to prepare, but it looks like a mess in seconds. I stare at my reflection in the mirror again—messy hair, a deep scowl on my lips, and bright red.
This is what he gets.
This is what he deserves.
When I head out of the house an hour later, there’s a limousine parked with the door open. I notice curious glances from the men, but I ignore them.
Let them think what they want. At least one thing will be clear—I didn’t consent to this wedding.
“Such pretense,” I mutter as I get in. It’s empty, save for a bucket with a bottle of champagne, some ice and a few glasses.
“Please help yourself, Miss Ricci,” the driver says before the limo pulls out, driving away from the house. I grab the bottle, open it, and pour myself a glass. Swirling the frothy liquid around, I tip my head back and pour it down my throat.
I know he means I could have one or two, part of whatever service they offer, but getting drunk is the only way I’ll go through the whole wedding without having the urge to punch the priest while he conducts the ceremony.
I’d rather not take out my frustration on an innocent person.
Is the priest even innocent, though? If he’s officiating, then he knows who Roman is. If he does, and he’s allowing a man like him to get married in his chapel, that has to be some offense.
So if I end up punching him…I pour myself another glass, then another, until the bottle is almost empty and I’m buzzed.
Happy married life, Roman Volkov!
Somehow, I manage to go through the whole thing. I don’t remember most of it, because I remain buzzed until the very end and it lasts all of an hour.
No vows. No kissing. As if I’d allow him to come that close to me again. Last night was an egregious mistake. I’ve chosen to blame my near-death experience, and I’ve accepted that I would’ve clung to anyone else if they saved me from dying.
It wasn’t Roman’s charm. I was desperate for warmth.
“Isabella.” He grabs my arm as I walk toward the chapel’s exit doors. I turn with a disgusted look as I glance down at my wrist. “Are you drunk?”
“What a question,” I snort. “How else do you think I lasted through this forced wedding, husband?” Sarcasm drips from the last word.
His jaw tightens as if he’s about to protest, but he exhales, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
“Home?” I yank my hand out of his grip, the word leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. “Your house, you mean? And I don’t know why you’re asking. It’s not like I have a choice. I’m a prisoner there, remember?!” I raise my voice, hoping to embarrass him, but he’s unfazed.
He leans in, and I feel his breath against my ear. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. “I know what you’re doing, Isabella. But I should warn you, it ends up looking bad for you. If I have to carry you out of this building, I will. I will have you over my shoulder, even if you scream and yell.”
A flicker of something—intimidation, maybe—twists in my gut, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
“Do your worst, Roman,” I snap, spinning on my heel and stalking toward the exit, the train of my black wedding dress trailing behind me like a veil of smoke.
The evening air slaps against my flushed cheeks the moment I step outside. Freedom, even if fleeting, fills my lungs. For a second, I imagine bolting. Running until my legs give out. But I know I won’t get far.
His footsteps are quiet, but I feel him before I see him—looming like a shadow I can’t outrun. He catches up with me, and I whirl on him before he can say a word, holding a finger between us like a weapon.
“If you touch me,” I warn, my voice sharp but trembling at the edges, “I will scream ungodly things. I’ll cry out in horror. I’ll say you did things no man can ever walk away from.”
His eyes narrow slightly—not in rage, but calculation. Then, in a voice smooth like velvet cut with steel, he says, “I don’t care what you scream, Isabella. But you will come with me.”
“Murder?” I hiss, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. “What if I tell everyone what you did? That you killed my fiancé at the altar?”
His face remains stone, unreadable. But I press forward, anger swelling hot in my throat.
“Do you really think you’ll get away with it? Maybe you will today. Maybe no one will care because you’re Roman fucking Volkov. But I’ll keep screaming it. Over and over. Until someone listens. Until someone stops you. Or until you finally put a knife to my neck and silence me for good.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air stretches thin between us.
I don’t want to die. But I’d let him think death is better than his mercy. Turning away, I march down the stone steps and yank open the car door, throwing myself inside.
I tear the dress away from my body the second I get home, pulling and ripping at seams that refuse to budge. Large holes appear where my fingernails dig into the lace, and when I toss it to the floor, it’s in tatters.
“Good riddance,” I mutter, kicking it for better measure. I thought I was making a statement by wearing black, but I should’ve known it wouldn’t matter to him. It wouldn’t make a dent in his plans.
He knew I was drunk. I wasn’t trying to hide it, and he didn’t say anything.
Because finishing the ceremony and getting that—
I lift my hand, staring at the plain gold band. I wasn’t completely aware when he slipped it on my finger, and I forgot to throw it at him when I stormed out of the church. Ripping it off, I chuck it at the wall.
It hits, bounces off, and vibrates on the floor for a good minute before settling.
“Mrs. Volkov.” I mouth the words, too irritated to say them out loud. I’m no longer Isabella Ricci, the only child and heir to Marco Ricci. I’m now wife to a crazed, egoistic, self-centered, controlling man.
I’ll never say it out loud. The words Mrs. Volkov will never slip past my lips as long as I’m alive, nor will his ring touch my finger again.
“I don’t care what you scream, Isabella. But you will come with me.” Roman’s words echo in my mind, and I see his impassive, unbothered face. It didn’t matter to him that I was willing to tell everyone who he truly was.
Murderer. He would’ve done as he said, because he did it once, at the cathedral. It’s almost as if nothing affects him.
The asshole!
I drag my fingers through my hair, biting my cheek to keep from screaming in frustration. I’ll show him. Someway, somehow, I’ll make him regret forcing me down the isle.
As I walk to the bathroom, fuming, I hear a vibrating sound. I spin, gaze cutting to my bed. My phone? I haven’t used it since I tried contacting my father, but he didn’t respond.
And after Roman scared me into thinking we were going to start sharing a bed, I hid my phone under the bed. In hindsight, if he had followed through with his word, he might’ve found it easily.
I hear it vibrate again.
Dad?
I sprint to the bed, yanking up the mattress and slipping my hand underneath. It’s my phone. But it’s not my father; an unknown number flashes on the screen.
Desperate, I answer and place it against my ear gingerly. “Hello?”
“Miss Ricci?”
Nico? My heart leaps. Nico was one of my father’s closest friends and his attorney until they had a falling out. My father never explained why, and I knew better than to ask, even though Nico had been like a second father to me.
“Nico?” I whisper as my eyes dart to the door. It’s closed, but I don’t have a lock, so Roman can come in any time.
Now that we’re married.
I drag the chair with one hand, straining against the weight as I make it to the door. Wedging it under the knob, I return to the call.
“Nico?”
“Miss Ricci,” he says, and I almost exclaim with joy. “I’m sorry I haven’t reached out since…” He trails off, but I know he’s referring to my wedding—the one where I was taken. “Your father is in a peculiar situation, so he asked me to convey his message.”
My father? Hope and doubt strain against my heart. I thought he abandoned me, leaving before my wedding and going radio silent after I got here.
“He killed my father. Betrayed a blood oath…I will kill him.”
Roman’s accusation. His promise to end my father.
If Dad knew that Roman was coming, it could explain why he had to run. But I’ve never known him to run away from a fight. He was the one who told me that I shouldn’t let a rival see weakness, because they’ll know they have the upper hand.
Why would he run away instead of facing Roman, unless he knew he’d done something abominable?
“No.” I shake my head, refusing the thought. My father didn’t kill Roman’s father. He wouldn’t. Unless he had a good reason. “Nico?”
“Miss Ricci?”
I hesitate, unable to get the words past my lips. The truth is, I’m scared. I want to believe that Roman made it up because he couldn’t accept that his father died for any other reason. I want him to be wrong.
On the other hand, I thought I knew my father, but he gave me to a stranger and then disappeared. After my mother’s death and his failed relationship with Nico, I have so many unanswered questions.
“Did my dad kill Roman Volkov’s father?”
The silence that meets my question on the other end feels too heavy for my fingers. They shake as I struggle to hold the phone, and I can hear my heart pounding in my ears.
“Nico?” I can barely hear my voice. “Nico?”
“We’re going to get you out of there.”
That’s not what I asked. That’s not what I wanted. “How?” I ask, letting him get away with the subject change.
He clears his throat. “You don’t have to know the details. But we will need to take Roman out of the playing field before we come for you. There’s no telling what plans he has or the traps he’s laid out.”
Take him out? My eyebrows creep up. Surely they don’t mean…
“Are you going to kill him?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Just stay put, okay? I promise we’ll get you out of there. Your father wanted me to tell you he’s thinking about you,” Nico says.
Lies. Lies. Lies! I want to scream, but I do what I did before—bite the inside of my cheek as I inhale slowly. “Okay.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you some other time.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything, and I let the phone fall from my hand, watching it bounce as it hits the bed. I follow suit as my knees suddenly go immobile, losing their strength.
I should be happy. I’m finally getting out of here, and my father, even though I suspect Nico added that last message on his own, didn’t completely neglect me. Roman will be getting his due for everything he’s done. I might not have orchestrated it myself as I wanted to, but it’s happening either way.
So I should be relieved.
And yet, I’m not.
I can only think about Roman dying at the hands of the man who might have killed his father.
