Page 29 of Velvet Chains
I take a steadying breath as I settle into my seat next to Ksenia. She shoots me an icy glare that tells me everything she feels about me.
It’s just a year. Try not to get killed by her death stare.
I have to keep reminding myself of that.
At the head table, my new father-in-law looks exhausted, the festivities clearly taking their toll. Dr. Petrov leans in, whispering something in his ear. Yuri and Eli bound over, kissing their grandfather on each cheek and drawing out a tired smile.
Our gazes lock across the room. I shoot him a nervous glance, and I see a flicker of approval in the Pakhan’s eyes. He inclines his head slightly, a subtle nod of acknowledgment.
At the table, there’s this guy already making himself cozy, toasting Victor like they’re old war buddies or something. I can’t help but notice the scar slashing across his cheek like a signature. He’s decked out in this suit that screams, “I’ve got money and probably a couple of bodies buried somewhere.”
Nobody bats an eye at the groom looking like he lost a fight with a paintball gun.
Except this involves actual guns.
Drawing in a lungful of air. I smooth my hands over the silk of my gown, trying to calm the nerves fluttering in my stomach.
Just get through tonight.
One hour at a time.
I take a bite of my steak, the tender meat turning to ash in my mouth as I watch yet another stunning woman approach Victor. She’s tall and willowy, with endless legs and a mane of glossy black hair—a supermodel, if I had to guess.
Probably one of those Victoria’s Secret angels, all lace and lingerie and impossible beauty.
“Vitya,” she coos, draping herself over his shoulder like a designer scarf. “I’ve missed you.”
Victor smiles up at her, that lazy, charming grin that makes my stomach flip. “Katya,” he greets her warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You look ravishing, as always.”
I sit there awkwardly, my presence completely ignored.
It’s been like this all night—a parade of beautiful people orbiting Victor, toasting him, laughing with him, all while I fade into the background. No one spares me a second glance, as if I’m just another piece of decor, as insignificant as the centerpieces.
I watch as Katya leans in close, her hand splayed possessively over Victor’s chest.
Jealousy flares up in me, raw and biting. I take a big gulp of water and drink it in, trying to wash this feeling off.
But it’s useless.
The jealousy burns too hot, like trying to smother a grease fire with a wet rag. I can’t tear my eyes away as he flirts right in front of me.
She’s saying something in Russian, her voice low and intimate, and though I can’t understand the words, I can read the intent behind them clear as day. Victor seems to be drinking it in, his eyes alight with amusement and something darker, more heated.
Before I can process the sharp sting of jealousy, another woman approaches—this one a blond with sky-high cheekbones and a dress that looks painted on. She kisses Victor on both cheeks, leaving behind perfect lipstick imprints.
“Zhenya, thanks for coming.” He laughs, pulling her into a hug. “When did you get back from Paris?”
They launch into a rapid-fire conversation in Russian, their heads bent close together. I might as well be invisible for all the attention they’re paying me. The new bride, the supposed woman of the hour.
I reach for my wineglass, downing the contents in one unladylike gulp. The alcohol does little to quell the hot, prickling sensation under my skin, the sour taste of humiliation on my tongue.
I need to get the hell out of here. This whole fucking scene is just too much.
Abruptly, I push back my chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. “Excuse me,” I mutter to no one in particular.
I walk away from the table, from the suffocating weight of my own insignificance. It doesn’t matter where I’m going—I just need to be anywhere but here, watching my new husband bask in the adoration of other women. Women who are taller, more beautiful, more poised. Women who clearly have a history with him, a connection I can’t even begin to touch.
I knew this marriage was a sham, a transaction.
