Page 16 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

It doesn’t, I tell myself firmly. It’s better this way. Cleaner. No messy emotions to complicate things.

I return to my financial reports, but the numbers blur before my eyes. All I can see is Elena’s face, proud even in defeat, beautiful even in distress.

Mine, even if only by necessity.

5

Elena

I’m not sure why, but I expected a courthouse, a rushed signature, and maybe a handshake. Instead, I’m wearing a silk dress that isn’t mine, standing in a grand, dimly lit room filled with men who could kill with a look.

Damir’s palm settles against the small of my back, warm and heavy through the silk of my dress. His fingers splay possessively, anchoring me to him as he guides me forward. The pressure is gentle but unmistakable. There is no hesitation in his touch, no uncertainty. I am almost his now, at least on paper.

The officiant, an older man with a grim expression and dead eyes, stands before us. His suit is impeccable, but there’s nothing warm about him. No smile. No congratulations. Just business.

“State your full name,” he instructs me, his voice flat.

“Elena Sofia Clarke,” I respond, my voice sounding small in the cavernous room.

“And you?” He looks at Damir.

“Damir Alexander Antonov,” my soon-to-be husband says, his accent thickening the words, making them sound like a command rather than a statement.

The ceremony, if you could call it that, proceeds with mechanical efficiency. No promises of love or devotion. No “‘til death do us part.” Just legal statements and signatures. The scratch of pen on paper sounds unnaturally loud.

“Sign here,” indicates the officiant, sliding the document toward me. “And here. Initial here.”

Damir’s hand never leaves my back, a constant reminder of why I’m here and what this arrangement truly is. Liv is silent nearby, my only witness and support system.

“It’s done,” announces the officiant after collecting our signatures, closing his leather portfolio with a snap that echoes like a jail cell locking. “The marriage is legally binding.”

No “You may kiss the bride.” No rice throwing or cheerful music. Just business concluded between powerful men, with me as the commodity being transferred.

The moment I sign the marriage certificate, I feel the pressure of a choice that was never really mine. His men offer congratulations, voices low and clipped, but Damir doesn’t say a word. He simply watches me, eyes knowing. Liv also watches with sympathy.

My fingers tremble, but I don’t let him see. If I’m going to survive this, I can’t show weakness. Not to him or anyone. Yet, I can’t deny a pull. Despite his possessiveness, I feel safe around him. Protected. Something I’ve never experienced with anyone else, and I don’t know how to process it.

The dress hugs my body like a second skin. It’s ivory silk that whispers against my legs when I move. It’s simple but elegant, with a modest neckline and cap sleeves. Nothing like the poufy monstrosity I’d dreamed of as a little girl, but then again, nothing about this wedding resembles those childhood fantasies.

“You okay?” whispers Liv, squeezing my hand. She stands beside me in her own deep burgundy dress that complements her warm skin tone. The only familiar face in a sea of strangers. When I showed up with her in tow, I saw Damir’s mouth tighten, but he’d registered no protest at my unexpected plus-one.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Six days ago, I agreed to marry a man I barely know to save my medical career. Now I’m Mrs. Antonova, at least on paper.

Damir turns to me, his expression unreadable. “It’s done.”

Two simple words that seal my fate. I search his face for... something. Regret? Satisfaction? I find neither. Just cool assessment, as if he’s calculating my worth in this transaction.

A tall man with a jagged scar across his right cheek approaches us. “Congratulations,Pakhan.” He nods at me. “Mrs. Antonova.”

The title makes me tremble. Mrs. Antonova. Not Dr. Clarke, the identity I’ve been working toward for years. Mrs. Antonova, wife of a man who commands respect through fear.

“Thank you, Viktor,” says Damir, his voice deep and smooth.

More men approach, offering brief congratulations. Their words blur together, names I’ll never remember attached to faces I hope never to see again. I smile and nod, playing my part in this charade.

“The car is ready,” a broad-shouldered man informs Damir. “Security is in place at the hotel.”

Damir nods, his hand returning to my lower back. “Let’s go.”

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