The white dress was heavy. The corset dug into my ribs, and dozens of layers of tulle tangled around my legs. The air smelled of lilies and strangers’ perfume.
Hundreds of eyes were watching Vladimir Belozorov and me, standing at the altar in the most expensive hall in Kyiv. Fake smiles, fake tears of joy on the guests’ faces, fake happiness. A picture-perfect scene for a glossy magazine cover.
The heiress of the Orlenko construction empire and the son of the raw materials magnate Belozorov. A union made not in heaven, but in the boardroom. I knew who I was marrying.
Vladimir never looked at me. He looked through me: at my father’s shares, at his factories, at the contracts. And I returned the favor.
The priest in his gold-embroidered vestments began his speech. His voice was thick like honey: “We are gathered here today to join in holy matrimony…”
At that moment, Vladimir, my perfect groom, leaned toward me. His lips almost touched my ear, and his cologne hit my nose with a sharp, expensive scent. He was smiling at the guests, but his eyes were as cold as ice.
“My people just confirmed it,” he whispered, his voice ringing with pure, unadulterated triumph. “Your father is bankrupt, all his assets are frozen. I don’t need you anymore, you beggar.”
He pulled back, waiting for the effect. He expected tears, hysterics, a humiliated escape. He wanted to see me break right here, in front of this whole high-society pack. He wanted to savor my shame, which would become the main gossip of the season. His eyes swam with contempt and cruel pleasure. He already pictured me, sobbing, tearing off my veil and running away, leaving him as the victim of a cunning deceiver.
But there was something he hadn’t considered. I didn’t lower my eyes; I didn’t cry. I looked at him, straight into his smug pupils, and allowed myself a slight, barely noticeable smile. His face twitched. He didn’t understand; this wasn’t in his script.
While the priest continued to mumble something about love and fidelity, I took a step to the side. The master of ceremonies, a famous showman, was holding a microphone for the congratulatory speeches. I took it from his weakened grasp. He blinked in surprise.
Silence fell over the hall. The music stopped. All eyes were on me. My father, in the front row, looked on with anxiety. Vladimir’s father, Igor Stanislavovich, on the other hand, watched with predatory interest.
I brought the microphone to my lips. Vladimir stared at me. The color began to drain from his face. “What are you doing?” he hissed so quietly that only I could hear…
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