Page 27 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I gave him the abbreviated version. The failed kidnapping, William’s disavowal, the marriage plan. He listened without interruption, which meant he was either very interested or planning my funeral.
“Clever,” he said when I finished. “Risky as fuck, but clever. When’s the ceremony?”
“Today. Three o’clock.”
“Where?”
“The old chapel. In the woods behind the house.”
Another silence. Rafael knew about the chapel, had been there for my parents’ memorial service years ago. It was sacred ground for the Voronov family, the place where we’d said goodbye to everyone we’d lost.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
“I’ll be there.”
The chapel hadn’t been used in five years, not since we’d laid my parents to rest. Stone walls covered in ivy, stained glasswindows that threw colored light across weathered pews. It smelled like old wood and forgotten prayers.
Lev had cleaned it up, swept away the dust and dead leaves, and arranged flowers that Anya had somehow procured on short notice. It looked almost peaceful, which felt like a lie considering what we were really doing here.
“Nervous?” Lev asked, adjusting his tie in the reflection of a cracked mirror.
“Should I be?”
“You’re about to marry a woman you kidnapped. Most people would call that complicated.”
I checked my watch. Two fifty-five. Where the fuck was Rafael?
The sound of car doors slamming echoed through the trees, and I saw Cassandra leading Zara up the path. The PR specialist looked like she wanted to burn the whole place down, but she was here. That was what mattered.
Another car. Rafael stepping out, straightening his jacket with the kind of calm precision that made him dangerous. He caught my eye through the window and nodded once.
“Showtime,” Lev muttered.
I took my position at the altar, hands clasped behind my back to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. This was just another job, another step in a plan that would destroy William Beaumont. It didn’t matter that my pulse was racing or that my mouth had gone dry.
The chapel doors opened.
Eleanor stepped into the doorway, and every rational thought in my head evaporated.
The dress Anya had created was a masterpiece. Ivory silk that hugged Eleanor’s curves before flowing into a train that seemed to float behind her. Intricate beadwork that caught thecolored light from the stained glass windows. A neckline that was modest and seductive all at once.
But it wasn’t the dress that stopped my breath.
It was her.
She walked down the aisle with her chin up, shoulders back, every step radiating the kind of quiet confidence that commanded attention. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, a few loose strands framing her face. She wore no veil, nothing to hide behind.
This wasn’t a woman being led to slaughter. This was a queen claiming her throne.
Our eyes met halfway down the aisle, and I saw something in her gaze that made my chest tight. Not defeat or resignation, but a kind of fierce determination that matched my own.
She’d made her choice. Just like I’d made mine.
The officiant was one of Rafael’s contacts, a man who asked no questions and kept his mouth shut. The words washed over me in a blur of legal terminology and traditional vows that felt anything but traditional.
“Do you, Maxim Voronov, take Eleanor Beaumont to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
