He tried to take my hand, but I stepped back. “Are you finished?” His face twitched. “Kira, I love you. I’ve always loved you. All of this—the money, the business—it’s all tinsel. The only thing that matters is us. Let’s take it all back, forget this nightmare. We can go away, anywhere you want, start fresh. Just you and me. We were happy.”
At that, I couldn’t hold back. I laughed, not loudly, but so genuinely that he flinched. “Happy? Vladimir, are you serious?” “What, we weren’t?” There was an offended note in his voice. “No,” I snapped. “You weren’t happy with me for a single day. You were satisfied. Satisfied with a profitable match, satisfied with how we looked together in photos, satisfied with the prospects our marriage offered. But you never saw me. You don’t know what music I listen to, what books I read, what I’m afraid of at night. You weren’t interested, so don’t you dare talk to me about love.”
His face began to darken. The mask of the repentant lover was slipping, revealing his usual arrogance. “You…” “What about me?” I took a step toward him, looking him straight in the eye. “You thought I was some little fool who didn’t understand what was going on? You loved my dad’s factories, and I…” “And I just played my part well, the part of the loving bride. And by the looks of it, I played it better than you.”
He looked at me with hatred. All his feigned pity had evaporated. “You’ll regret this, Orlenko. My father will destroy you.” “We’ll see about that, Belozorov,” I answered coldly. “Now get away from my home before I call security. Your five minutes are up. And don’t ever let me see you again. Ever.”
I turned and walked to the entrance, feeling his gaze, full of impotent rage, drilling into my back.
The first attack had been repelled. Realizing that neither threats nor pathetic attempts at manipulation would work on us, the Belozorovs moved on to Plan B. They decided to destroy our reputation.
The next day, all the tabloids and Telegram channels were exploding with news about our wedding. The headlines screamed: “Hysterical Bride Ruins Wedding of the Century,” “Kira Orlenko: Gold Digger or Madwoman,” “Bride’s Father Bankrupt, Daughter Makes Scene to Extort Compensation.” The articles were full of lies. I was portrayed as a mercenary, unstable person who, upon learning of her family’s financial problems, decided to cause a scene to slander the good name of the Belozorovs and demand a payoff. They included quotes from “friends” who talked about my alleged nervous breakdowns and exorbitant appetites.
I sat in my father’s office, scrolling through all this filth on my tablet. My hands were trembling with anger. “The bastards!” I hissed. “They’re dragging our names through the mud in front of the whole country. Dad, they’re destroying your name! No partner will want to do business with you after this.”
My father, surprisingly, was calm. He looked out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Let them write. Paper will put up with anything. The main thing is that we know the truth…”
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