Page 3 of Split

“Father James just arrived,” Magnus provides.

“Excellent,” Roman replies with a nod, lifting his napkin from his lap and wiping the corner of his mouth. He pushes his chair back, the wooden legs screeching against the floorboards. “In the office, then?”

“What? Now?” I blurt, my panicked gaze darting between my husband-to-be and my father.

The latter shoots me a glare of disapproval and I snap my mouth closed, wishing the ground would just open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole.

This was supposed to be a simple meeting; an introduction to see if Magnus’ son was interested in taking me as his wife.They’re not really expecting us to take our vows right now, are they?

“Come, Eliza,” My father instructs, his sharp tone brokering no room for argument.

I slide my chair back and rise to my feet, smoothing down the front of my silk dress. It’s fitting that I wore black today. This feels more like a funeral than a wedding.

My knees wobble as I cross the room, my hand shaking as I place it in my father’s outstretched palm.

I don’t want to go through with this, but being damned to a life of misery is my penance, isn’t it? I behaved badly, falling into bed with the first man who gave me a crumb of his attention, much to my father’s embarrassment. No daughter of his should be fraternizing with the help. No daughter of an organized crime family should dare to think she has free will.

The walk through the darkened hallways to Magnus’ office feels like a march to my own execution. I know nothing about Roman Volkov; even less about the business he’s embroiled in with my father. All Idoknow is that he’s high-ranking in the Bratva and with this union, I’m doomed to a life marred with violence and heartache until the day I draw my last breath, just as my mother was.

I watched her grieve a series of tragedies– the loss of her brother, the loss of her father– before a tragic accident of her own took her from me when I was nine. I narrowly escaped my own death that day. She pushed me from the wreckage of our car before it became fully engulfed in flames, but her screams still haunt me.

The nasty burn scar covering my left bicep is an ever-present reminder of the accident and the reason I always wear sleeves. The sight of it triggers my father, so I’ve learned to cover up to appease my only remaining relative. I tried wearing something sleeveless to this meeting today just to spite him, but he took one look at me, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and ordered me to change. He doesn’t want my suitor to see that he’s peddling damaged goods, after all.

What will Roman think when he takes me to bed and I don’t bleed like a virgin?

I suppose it’ll be too late at that point. Apparently, we’re doing this right now, in a rushed ceremony in a damnedoffice. It isn’t exactly the fairytale wedding most little girls dream of.

Not that I ever allowed myself to have those dreams.

Magnus and Roman walk side by side ahead of us, both their figures looming large in the hallway and eating up the width of it. My father’s hand is still gripped securely around mine, as if he’s afraid I’ll try to run.

Where would I go?

I resigned myself to this fate the moment I was caught with Wesley, a member of our household staff. My father put a pistol to his head and threatened to decorate the walls with his brain matter if I didn’t obey, so here I am, selling my soul because I dared to step a toe over the line. Because I was foolish enough to act on my own selfish impulses.

We’re led into a large office at the back of the house, the side walls lined with dark wooden bookcases and the rear wall adorned with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling gardens of the estate. It would almost be picturesque if it wasn’t for the aged priest standing in front of them, holding a bible in his hands and poised to sentence me to an eternity of suffering.

I stumble a step and my father squeezes my hand so tightly in his grip that my bones feel as if they could shatter. He darts me a warning glare– as if I need it– then relinquishes his grasp, nudging me to join Roman in standing before the priest.

The old man cracks a smile, flashing his yellowed teeth as his gaze slides from me to my betrothed. “Do you want the full version, or…?”

“Just make it quick,” Roman snaps, straightening his shirt cuffs impatiently.

The priest nods, clearing his throat and tipping his head down to read from the book in his hands, his raspy voice wavering. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

I feel like I disassociate from my body as he speaks. The only thing I can hear is the blood rushing to my ears; the only thing I can feel is the erratic pounding of my own heart. It isn’t until I find the priest looking to me expectantly that I come back into myself, right as he speaks the last line: ‘til death do you part. My tongue feels like it’s stuck in molasses as my mouth moves to form the words, “I do.”

“Do you have rings?” the priest asks Roman.

He waves him off dismissively. “We’ll get them later.”

The old man nods uncertainly, snapping his book closed. “Then I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

He doesn’t tell Roman to kiss his bride, and I’m glad for it. With the way bile is currently crawling up my throat, I’d probably vomit all over his shiny Italian loafers.

Magnus approaches with a piece of paper, borrowing the priest’s bible for backing so we can scrawl our signatures on the marriage license. The ink hasn’t even dried before Roman abruptly turns on a heel, stalking toward the door.

“Let’s go,” he orders gruffly.

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