Chapter 3 SOLNISHKO
Sunshine.
When you call someone that name, don’t you at least smile? Maybe with amusement, or a touch of love?
Right?
But this man… this man I am marrying today has nothing close to amusement on his face. Nothing.
The officiant begins, his voice echoing somewhere distant, and I nod along, like I understand, and like I belong. But my mind races, a thousand warnings screaming at me. He will know. He will see through this. You can’t do this. Not today.
A flicker crosses his eyes which is almost invisible. A tilt of the head, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth which was predatory and dangerous.
“Nervous?” he asks softly, and it isn’t soft at all.
“I… I am fine," I choke out, hating the tremor in my voice.
I swallow, forcing the air down my throat, pretending not to notice. Each word from the officiant, each movement in the crowd, feels like a countdown.
Now, I understand Talia.
I mean, she didn’t have any right to run away, leaving me to bear her cross but I understand her, at least a little.
I wouldn’t feel good around this man either. This sickening man.
But, didn’t she say they were getting along well?
Although, I had confronted my parents that this was moving too fast.
Just a month ago, I met this man for the first time, just like Talia.
Talia said she was okay with the wedding happening exactly when he wanted it. Barely a month later but none of this ever made sense to me.
If only they had listened to me!
But what do I know, right?
Talia is the model daughter. The one who often gets invited to the highly prolific gathering. She is a model, the one who looks perfect in the crowd.
And me?
I am just the girl who spends her days scribbling sketches no one understands.
My father hates it, actually. He says I am nothing like my sister.
Who cares?
But right now, I wish I was.
Because there is no way I can last a week. No, a day without slipping back into my character.
I am everything Talia is not.
Loud. Messy. Funny. Unladylike, as my father would say.
And Talia? You would think she walked straight out of a painting.
I hate to admit it, but she was practically raised to fit into this world. His world.
She barely smiles, either. I am her sister, yet I have no idea what goes on in her head, while she could read me like an open book.
I mean, this is proof, isn’t it?
She wouldn’t have gotten the chance to flee if I had taken a goddamn minute to see through the facade she had been wearing all along.
“Do you, Talia Monroe…” The officiant’s voice slices through my thoughts.
The name slams into me like a gunshot again.
Talia.
For a split second, I forget to breathe.
My throat burns, but I manage to nod, forcing out a whisper that sounds nothing like me.
“Do you take Luciano Rafael Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward…?”
This is the time to slam this fucking flowers on his cold, stoic face and bolt the fuck out of this room, but… why does my feet feels rooted to the ground?
Why do I fear that I would indeed die if I take a step away from him?
“I…” I swallowed, feeling nothing but the lump gathered in my throat.
“I do.”
Luciano didn’t blink. He didn't even smile.
He just watches me.
Like he’s memorizing every breath, every twitch, or perhaps every lie.
His gaze drags over me, slow and assessing, before flicking briefly to my lips, then back to my eyes. The air between us tightens, heavy with something I can’t name.
The officiant turns to him. “And do you, Luciano Rafael Moretti, take Talia Monroe to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Luciano’s jaw ticks once. He still doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“I do.”
The two words were low and quiet but they sound like a verdict.
The officiant’s voice cuts through the haze. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
I freeze as my fingers dig into the bouquet, petals trembling under the pressure. Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Luciano doesn’t hesitate. His eyes lock on mine, unreadable, and dark as midnight. He takes a slow step closer. Every motion is detailed, and deliberate before his hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear gently and almost intimate.
I stay rooted to the spot, my chest tightening.
Then, he leans in.
His lips meet mine, not softly nor sweetly. It was firm, and possessive.
The world around me disappears. I feel the heat of his body, the strength in his hands, and the slow, deliberate pressure of his lips against mine. My knees threaten to buckle as my heartbeat feels like it will burst from my chest.
And then he pulls back just enough for his eyes to meet mine again dark and measuring.
“You smell different, wifey. Did you get bored of your perfume?”
The world tilted as he said and I felt my pulse spike.
Because for the first time since this nightmare began…
I think he knows.
_____
And just like that, the wedding is over. At least, Luciano thinks so.
We don’t spend a single damn minute more after the kiss before he says we’re leaving. Every single person in the hall stands up, bows, and mutters something that sounds like a code…or slang?
I don't know but the way they look at him… it isn’t respect. It is submission, and it makes my stomach turn.
Who is this man?
I want to ask, but my throat is dry, so I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, pretending I belong in a world I don’t understand.
Outside, black SUVs line the driveway, engines purring. Men in dark suits move with military precision, opening doors, and scanning the horizon. A convoy in front, a convoy behind. The weight of it presses against my chest.
“Get in,” Luciano says, his voice low, flat, and impossible to ignore.
I hesitate, fumbling with the folds of my dress. He doesn’t move to help. Didn’t even glance at me, except to make sure I obey.
Sliding into the backseat of the first SUV, I press my back to the leather, trying to steady my breathing.
Luciano follows, takes his seat next to me, and doesn't say a word as he simply stares out the window, his face sharp, and stiff.
Finally, after what feels like hours but is barely minutes, he shifts slightly, and for the first time, his dark, unreadable eyes meet mine.
Then, he slides his hand under my dress and drops it onto my thigh firmly, and my entire body goes rigid at the gesture.
I flinched way too visibly as his thumb brushes slow circles against my skin, like he is testing the texture of my fear.
“You are mine now, solnishko,” he murmurs, the Russian word rolling off his tongue like silk and smoke.
His gaze holds mine, and unblinking. “Every breath you take belongs to me. Every look, and every word. I don’t share what is mine. I don’t negotiate it either.”
I try to breathe, but his hand stays where it is, heat searing through my body.
“You will learn soon enough,” he continues, voice low and deliberate, “that in my world, obedience isn’t optional. You will bend, or I will make you. Either way, you will fit.”
The words sink into my chest like a brand of warning and promise.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath brush my ear.
“Smile, solnishko. You just became a Moretti.”