Page 129 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

The wedding planner’s eyes flit to me with a mixture of intimidation and awe.

“I’m Aleksandr Makarova, by the way,” I explain to her as pleasantly as possible. “Olivia’s husband.”

“Oh my,” the woman mumbles. “You two must have made quite the couple on your wedding day.”

“It was more like a hostage situation,” Olivia sasses angrily.

The wedding planner assumes it’s a joke and giggles. “Please follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Makarova.”

I maintain a firm grip on Olivia’s hand and tow her along after the wedding planner. She keeps her head down the entire way to our seats.

As promised, we’ve got two seats in the second row. The moment we’re seated, the music starts to swell and an orchestra plays Hargrove down the aisle alongside an armada of groomsmen.

I roll my eyes at the pomp and circumstance of the whole thing, well aware that there are cameras roving everywhere, capturing every facial expression to serve up on a tasty platter later for an adoring public hooked up to the IV of a breathless, 24/7 news cycle. I’m sure they see what I’m doing.

Hargrove, on the other hand, doesn’t catch sight of me until he’s standing up on the raised dais.

He scans the crowd. I notice how calculated his gaze is. Weighing, assessing, seeing who is where and what that implies. He looks pleased at first—Everything according to plan,I’m sure he’s thinking.

Then he finds me.

And that thought goes right out the window.

His eyes barely narrow, but that’s all I needed to see. Olivia seems to shrink beside me.

“Oh, God,” she mutters.

“Calm down,moya zhena,” I say. I still have her hand trapped in mine. “It’s a wedding. Just enjoy yourself.”

“I didn’t enjoy my own wedding,” she hisses. “Why should this be any different?”

I ignore the comment as the bridal march starts to play. Fabric rustles throughout the ballroom as all eyes turn to the back.

The bride’s procession is even grander than the groom’s. It starts off with flower girls scampering down the aisle, casting petals everywhere they can reach. After them comes a fleet of bridesmaids decked out in varying shades of pastel purple.

Finally, at the burgeoning crescendo of the music, the bride arrives on the arm of her stoic brother.

“You think he’d muster up a smile for this,” I drawl.

“He’s got a lot on his mind,” Olivia snaps. “Leave him alone.”

Mia doesn’t notice either one of us as they pass, but Rob sure as hell does. He almost comes to a standstill. It’s Mia who urges him forward without bothering to check what snagged his attention.

I lean back in my seat, smugly pleased. Hargrove was right about one thing: everything is going according to plan.

The problem for him is, the plan is mine.

The ceremony proceeds smoothly after that, though it goes on for-fucking-ever. The priest gives a sermon and then there are vows and promises to be made. I have to resist the urge to yawn numerous times.

When Donald starts in on his vows, I groan audibly. Olivia elbows me in the side.

“That was a little aggressive.”

“Good,” she hisses. “It was meant to be. Have some respect.”

“For that son of a bitch?” I scoff. “Not likely.”

“For the sanctity of marriage, if nothing else.”

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