Chapter 13 Marlena
The Vogue photography studio was all white walls and bright lights.
I stood in the middle of it, wearing a dress I had not chosen while a team of people fussed over my hair and makeup.
"Tilt your chin up, darling. Yes, like that."
"More blush. She looks washed out."
"Can we do something about the dark circles?”
I wanted to tell them the dark circles were from not sleeping, lying awake every night staring at that photo of Luka with the red X over his face, jumping at every sound, convinced someone was coming for him.
But I just sat still and let them paint over the evidence of my terror.
Nikolai arrived twenty minutes late, looking perfect in a black suit. He didn't apologize for his lateness – just walked in like he owned the room, and knowing him, he probably did.
"Mr. Volkov!" The photographer, a thin man named Jean-Pierre, rushed over. "Finally! We're losing the light.”
"It's a studio, Jean-Pierre. There is no light to lose."
"Metaphorical light, darling. Metaphorical." He clapped his hands. "Now, let's get you two positioned. This is a love story, remember? America's most eligible bachelor, finally tamed by love.”
I nearly choked. Jean Pierre directed us to a white backdrop positioning me Infront of Nikolai.
"Closer," he commanded. "No, closer. This is your fiancé, not a stranger at a bus stop.”
Nikolai stepped forward until I could feel his hard chest pressed against my back.
My breath caught when his hand settled on my waist and I went rigid.
"Relax, darling," Jean-Pierre called out. "You're supposed to be in love, not getting a dental exam."
"She's trying," Nikolai murmured near my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
My skin prickled, not from cold but from awareness.
The subtle smell of his cologne filled my senses.
His hands on my waist felt like brands, burning through the thin silk and his chest against my back was solid, warm, making my traitorous body want to lean into him.
I hated it.
"Beautiful!" Jean-Pierre circled us with his camera. "Now, Mr. Volkov, pull her closer. Like you can't bear to let her go.”
Nikolai's arm tightened around me and he pulled me against him.
One hand slid across my stomach, the other moving up to rest just below my ribs.
My breath caught again.
"Marlena, darling, tilt your head back. Rest it on his shoulder."
I did, mechanically, feeling Nikolai's jaw brush against my temple.
"Perfect! Now look at each other. Yes, turn slightly – oh, this is gorgeous!"
I turned my head, and suddenly Nikolai's face was inches from mine.
Those grey eyes locked onto me, and something electric crackled in the minimal space between us.
"More passion!" Jean-Pierre shouted. "This is love! This is fire! Give me something real!”
Real, I laughed within me. What an irony. Nothing about this was real.
"Mr. Volkov, whisper something to her. Something intimate. Make her blush!"
Nikolai leaned in, his lips nearly brushing my ear.
"Just pretend I'm someone you don't hate," he whispered, so quietly only I could hear.
The words hit like cold water.
I turned my head slightly, my lips accidentally grazing his jaw as I whispered back, "I don't hate you.”
His body tensed against mine.
“I don't feel anything for you,” I continued, spelling out each word carefully, “You're nothing to me,”
His fingers dug into my waist slightly.
When I pulled back enough to see his face, something flickered in his eyes.
Was it hurt?
No. Impossible. Nikolai Volkov didn't get hurt. He didn't feel anything except coldness. He was like a rock in human form.
Or was ice a better comparison?
But his jaw has tightened and that flicker in his eyes almost looked like –
"Magnificent!" Jean-Pierre's voice shattered the moment. "That tension! That's what I needed. Now, let's try another setup.”
The next two hours were torture.
Nikolai's hands on my shoulders. My hand on his chest. His fingers tilting my chin up. His arm around my waist as we walked together, pretending to be a couple who actually liked each other.
Every touch felt like fire. Every whispered direction from Jean-Pierre made it worse.
"Kiss her forehead, Mr. Volkov."
He did. His lips pressed against my skin, and I felt the touch all the way down to my toes.
“Marlena, look up at him like he's your whole world.”
I tried hard but looking up at Nikolai's cold, beautiful face, I couldn't manufacture admiration.
I only felt trapped.
“That’s …good,” Jean-Pierre said. It was obvious from his voice that he was not impressed, “We’ll make it work in post,”
Translation: you two have zero chemistry, but Photoshop will fix it.
The moment Jean-Pierre called wrap, I stepped away from Nikolai like he'd burned me.
He let me go without a word, straightening his cuffs as if the last two hours hadn't happened.
"The wedding planner will meet us at the penthouse at three," he said, checking his phone. "Don't be late.”
Then he walked out, leaving me standing there in a dress I didn't choose, playing a role I never wanted.
The wedding planner arrived at exactly three.
Her name was Dominique, and she had a leather-bound binder that looked really heavy.
"We have so much to discuss!" She settled onto the pristine white sofa, spreading fabric swatches and venue photos across the coffee table. "The wedding is in six weeks, which is incredibly tight, but Mr. Volkov assures me money is no object."
Of course he did.
"Now, I've taken the liberty of narrowing down venues –"
"Wait," I interrupted. "Don't I get to pick?"
Dominique blinked. "Oh, Mr. Volkov has already selected The Pierre. It's perfect for a winter wedding, and –"
"I didn't agree to The Pierre."
"Well, it's already booked, darling. December availability is impossible, but Mr. Volkov pulled strings." She flipped through her binder. "Now, for the dress, I've arranged fittings with three designers: Vera Wang, Monique Lhuillier, and –"
"I want to choose my own designer."
Another blink. "These are the top designers in the world, and they've all agreed to work within our timeline –"
"I don't care." My voice was rising. "It's my wedding dress. I should get to pick."
"Technically, it's Mr. Volkov's wedding," Dominique said carefully. "He's paying for everything, so naturally he has final approval on all decisions."
The words hit like a slap.
"Of course he does," I said bitterly. "Because nothing about this is actually mine, is it?"
"Marlena –"
"The dress isn't mine. The venue isn't mine. Even my own goddamn wedding isn't mine." I stood abruptly, my hands shaking. "This isn't even real!"
There was silence.
Dominique stared at me, her perfectly made-up face frozen in shock.
"I mean–" I tried to backtrack, but it was too late. "It's just moving so fast, and –"
"I understand cold feet," Dominique said slowly. "But perhaps you should discuss this with Mr. Volkov –"
"Discuss what with me?"
We both turned.
Nikolai stood in the doorway, still in his suit from the photoshoot, his expression unreadable.
How long had he been there? How much had he heard?
"Nothing," I said quickly. "We were just –"
"She said the wedding isn't real," Dominique blurted out, then looked horrified with herself.
Nikolai's eyes locked onto mine. "Is that so?"
"I didn't mean –"
Nikolai cut me off, "Dominique, give us a moment."
"Of course, Mr. Volkov." She gathered her binder and fled like the room was on fire.
The door clicked shut, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. Nikolai walked toward me slowly, deliberately, like a predator approaching prey.
"The wedding isn't real," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Interesting choice of words."
"I was just overwhelmed –" I started but he cut me off again.
"You were telling the truth." He stopped a few feet away. "This isn't a real wedding. It's a transaction. A performance."
"Then why do you care what I say to the wedding planner?" I asked.
"Because –" His jaw clenched. " –appearances matter. And you jeopardizing this arrangement because you can't control your emotions is unacceptable."
"My emotions?" I let out a bitter laugh, "You've turned my entire life into a lie, and you're worried about my emotions?"
"You agreed to this."
"I had no choice!"
"Everyone has a choice, Marlena. You made yours."
The words were so cold, so dismissive, that something inside me snapped.
I yanked the engagement ring off my finger and threw it at him.
It sailed through the air, diamond catching the light, and he caught it effortlessly without even looking.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Not even close." I spat.
"Too bad." He stepped closer, holding the ring between us. "Because this is happening. The wedding, the photos, the interviews – all of it. You signed a contract. You'll wear the ring, smile for the cameras, and play your part."
"Or what? You'll hurt Luka?" My voice cracked. "Someone's already threatening him, so what more can you do?"
His expression changed. "What?"
Shit. I hadn't meant to say that.
"Nothing. Forget it." I said, turning away from him.
"Someone's threatening your brother?" He grabbed my arm. "When? How?"
"Why do you care?" I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. "He's just leverage to you, right? A way to keep me obedient?"
"Answer the question, Marlena."
"Let go of me."
"Not until you tell me what that –"
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the penthouse like a gunshot.
My palm stung. His head had barely moved but his eyes went from cold to molten in an instant.
We stood there, frozen, my hand still raised, his fingers still wrapped around my arm.
"Feel better?" he asked again, his voice rough.
"Not even close," I whispered.
His expression shifted to dangerous and intense.
"You want to hit me again?" He stepped closer, so close I could feel his breath. "Go ahead. Get it out of your system."
"I don't want to hit you."
"No?" His free hand caught my chin, tilting my face up. "Then what do you want, Marlena?"
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run so far from this prison that I'd never see his face again.
But standing there, with his hand on my chin and his eyes burning into mine, I wanted something else too.
Something I couldn't name and it terrified me more than any threat.
"I want you to let me go," I said, but my voice was too soft, too uncertain.
"Liar."
The word was barely a whisper.
Then he released me, stepping back so abruptly I stumbled.
He held out the ring. "Put it back on."
"No." I said firmly.
"Marlena –"
"I said no." I wrapped my arms around myself. "I can't do this anymore. The photoshoots, the wedding planning, pretending to be in love with someone who sees me as a transaction – I can't."
"You can. You will."
"Why?" I looked up at him, and I didn't try to hide the tears anymore. "Why me? Why not just marry Vivienne or any other socialite who actually wants this life?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, he said, "Because you're perfect bait."
The words were meant to hurt. They did but beneath them, I heard something else.
Regret.
"It's real enough for my purposes," he continued, his voice flat. "That's all that matters."
He set the ring on the coffee table and walked toward the stairs.
"Nikolai," I called after him.
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"Do you even care?" My voice broke. "About any of this? About what you're doing to me?"
Silence stretched between us.
“No,” he said
The single word felt like a door slamming shut.
He continued up the stairs, leaving me alone with the ring glittering on the table between fabric swatches and venue photos for a wedding that wasn't real.
I sank onto the sofa, my whole body shaking.
Slowly , I picked up the ring, feeling its weight in my palm.
Six weeks until the wedding.
Six weeks until I became Mrs. Volkov for real.
Six weeks until whatever remained of Marlena Rousseau disappeared completely.
I slid the ring back on, hating myself for it a
nd hating him for making me.
But mostly hating the part of me that had wanted him to say something different when I'd asked if he cared.
The part that wanted him to lie.
Even though I knew that Nikolai Volkov never lied.
He just didn't tell the whole truth.
And right now, I wasn't sure which was worse.