Page 9 of Velvet Chains
Don’t be stupid, Laur.
This is a contracted marriage, nothing more. One year, and then I’m done.
I repeat the words in my head, a mantra meant to keep me grounded, to remind me of the reality of this situation. But even as I silently scold myself, I can’t ignore the way my traitorous heart skips a beat when he looks at me, the way my skin tingles under his touch.
Stop it.
I can’t let myself feel safe with him, can’t let myself believe that this is anything more than a business arrangement.
Because in the end, that’s all it is—an illusion.
One year, I remind myself again. One year, and then you walk away. No attachments, no regrets.
At least I know I won’t end up as another dead body dumped by the Morozovs. They still need me alive for this fucking marriage.
Chapter 4
Victor
Two Hours before the Wedding
BEEP. BEEP. Beep.
The familiar sound echoes in my ears, a constant rhythm pulling me from the depths of unconsciousness.
I force my heavy eyelids open, squinting as bright light floods my vision.
As my sight adjusts, I see her. My heart skips a beat, then races.
She’s as beautiful as I remember, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes sparkling with love and joy at the sight of me.
“Mama?” the word escapes my lips, a whispered question filled with disbelief.
“Time to wake, sleepyhead,” she says with a smile, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on my forehead.
Speechless, I stare at her, emotions surging through me like a tidal wave. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I struggle to find my voice. “Am I… Am I dead?”
“Vitya, my love,” she whispers, the sound of my childhood nickname tugging at my heartstrings. “Don’t be silly!” Her fingers dance across my sides, tickling me like she used to when I was a boy. Laughter bubbles up from my chest, the sensation so real, so familiar.
“Mama?” My voice sounds small, childlike. “Is that really you?”
She nods, her smile never wavering. “Of course, my little warrior,” she says.
With a trembling hand, I reach out to touch her face. She’s warm, real. “I’ve missed you so much, Mama.”
The sting of tears intensifies, and instinctively, I try to hold them back.
We Morozovs do not show emotions.
My father’s and sister’s voices echo in my head, a stern reminder of our family’s unspoken rules.
“I know, Vitya.” She grabs my hand, a firm squeeze. “I’m here,” she taps my chest, right over my heart, “watching over you.” Her hand feels like coming home.
Glancing around the room, I realize we’re in our old childhood home. It’s smaller than I remember, lacking the maids and guards of our later years, but it’s filled with the warmth of our family—Papa, Mama, Ksenia, and me.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“What’s that?” I ask, wincing as a dull pain throbs in my ribcage. “Mama?”
