Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 6

Today is my wedding day to Dmitri Volkov.

I stand in the bridal preparation room while they dress me, a silent figure at the center of a ritual I never chose. The room feels less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded tomb.

Gold leaf crawled up the walls in ornate patterns meant to dazzle, not comfort. Chandeliers dripped crystal tears from the ceiling, scattering light that felt cold rather than celebratory. Everything gleamed.

Four women surround me—bridesmaids, I’m told—strangers with polite smiles that never reach their eyes.

They moved with practiced precision—hands swift, efficient, impersonal—as they laced the corset down my back, tugging harder than necessary, fingers pinching skin as though punishing it.

Another pinned the veil into my hair with sharp, impatient jabs. Powder was brushed across my cheeks without care, as if they were dusting furniture rather than a bride.

The dress was exquisite.

Ivory silk chiffon flowed over me like water, hand-embroidered with delicate silver thread that caught the light like frost.

Off-the-shoulder sleeves skimmed my arms, soft and elegant, while the train pooled at my feet like spilled moonlight.

It was a masterpiece—old money craftsmanship, the kind of gown fashion houses begged to display.

The kind Seraphina would have worn like a crown.

But the women dressing me wore their contempt openly.

Their eyes flicked over my body—lingering too long at my hips, my stomach, my breasts—with thinly veiled disdain.

One woman pursed her lips as she pulled the fabric tighter, as if trying to force me into a silhouette the dress had never been designed for.

Another clicked her tongue sharply when the zipper snagged for a brief second, sighing as though my body had personally insulted her.

“Dio mio,” one muttered under her breath in Italian.

“La straniera grassa.”

The fat foreigner.

I didn’t flinch.

I kept my chin lifted, spine straight, shoulders back—letting their words slide over me like rain against stone.

Five years ago, those whispers would have shattered me. Five years ago, I would have apologized for taking up space.

But five years ago, I hadn’t rebuilt myself in Ruslan Baranov’s gym.

I hadn’t carved muscle beneath curves I refused to starve away. I hadn’t learned how it felt to lift twice my own weight, to throw a man twice my size to the mat, to trust my body again.

I was strong now.

Their cruelty still stung—but it no longer defined me.

When they finally stepped back, one of them folded her arms and declared flatly, “Presentabile.”

Presentable.

As if I were an object cleared for use.

I turned toward the full-length mirror.

For a heartbeat, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

She wasn’t the frightened bride Dmitri Volkov had dragged to Lake Como six years ago.

This woman stood tall.

Her eyes were sharp, rimmed with resolve rather than fear. Her body filled the gown with unapologetic presence. The silver embroidery caught against her curves like it had always belonged there. Strength lived in the set of her shoulders, in the quiet defiance of her mouth.

I looked like armor wrapped in silk.

Beautiful. Powerful. Unbreakable.

And still—my stomach churned. Because this wasn’t a wedding. It was a contract.

Three months.

Ninety days of marriage to Dmitri Volkov—signed in blood-red ink, sealed under threats that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival.

A temporary shield against Seraphina and the Orlovs.

No public resistance. No disclosure of the arrangement.

Divorce at the end.

Ironclad.

Three months sounded short when spoken aloud.

But standing there, wrapped in silk and obligation, it felt endless.

Because I knew Dmitri.

I knew his obsession didn’t obey timelines. I knew his promises came with teeth.

“It’s time,” one of the bridesmaids snaps. “Move.”

I nod, saying nothing, and step forward.

“Careful,” another mutters as if I’m an inconvenience. “Don’t wrinkle it.”

They fall in around me, herding rather than guiding.

They don’t take me through the main doors.

Of course they don’t.

Instead, I was ushered down a narrow private corridor that smelled faintly of incense and old stone, the kind reserved for men who didn’t want witnesses and brides who weren’t meant to be admired.

The walls pressed close, gilded icons glaring down like silent judges. Every step echoed too loudly in the hush.

The four hostile bridesmaids trailed behind me like wardens.

The side doors opened.

The nave revealed itself in a hush of gold and shadow.

It was smaller than the cathedral where Dmitri had nearly married Seraphina just days ago, a grand spectacle that had collapsed before it could begin, yet it felt no less intimidating.

Candles flickered in disciplined rows, their flames steady.

Only twenty guests filled the pews.

No crowd. No celebration. Just power.

High-ranking capos sat stiffly, faces impassive, eyes calculating.

A handful of trusted allies stood like sentinels along the walls. This wasn’t a wedding—it was a declaration, witnessed by men who understood exactly what was being claimed.

In the front row, Giovanni sat straight-backed, hands folded.

Beside him—

My heart lurched.

Vanya.

My son looked impossibly small in his tiny navy suit, curls carefully combed, shoes polished to a mirror shine.

His legs barely reached the edge of the pew.

His eyes were wide, shining with a fragile mix of excitement and unease, like he knew this moment mattered but didn’t yet understand why.

When he spotted me, his face lit up.

He lifted his hand and waved, restrained but enthusiastic, like he wasn’t sure if waving was allowed in churches.

I waved back, discreetly.

My chest tightened painfully. If this was the price to keep him safe, I would pay it a thousand times over.

The organ began.

Soft. Solemn. Beautiful.

The bridal march rolled through the nave, heavy with tradition, hollow of joy.

I walked alone.

No father at my side. No arm to rest my hand upon. No one to give me away because there was no illusion to maintain. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t fate.

This was a transaction.

Halfway down the aisle, I couldn’t stop myself.

I veered left, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from one of the bridesmaids, and knelt swiftly beside Vanya’s pew. The organ faltered for a fraction of a second before continuing.

I pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Mom,” he whispered urgently, gripping my sleeve, his voice too serious for his small mouth. “You’re marrying him so you don’t have to be… his mistress, right?”

Mistress.

My throat tightened.

How did a five-year-old even know concepts like that?

I smiled anyway, reassuring, even as something inside me cracked.

“Everything I do,” I whispered, cupping his warm cheek in my palm, grounding myself in the feel of him, “every choice I make… it’s for you.”

His eyes searched mine, solemn, trusting.

Then he nodded once, decisive.

“Okay,” he said softly.

That trust nearly undid me.

I stood, smoothing my gown, and continued down the aisle.

Dmitri Volkov waited beneath the golden dome.

Immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit tailored to lethal perfection, he looked less like a groom and more like a ruler awaiting tribute. No smile touched his mouth. No warmth softened his features.

His face was carved from stone, sharpened by years of power and grief.

Only his eyes moved.

They tracked me with that familiar, unreadable intensity—the same gaze that had once made my knees weak, that had once convinced me I was chosen.

Now it made my skin prickle with unease.

I stopped before him.

For a heartbeat, we simply stared at each other.

The priest—ancient, stooped, hands trembling—cleared his throat and began the rite in formal Italian, his voice gravelly with age. Halfway through, he switched to English, likely at Dmitri’s insistence.

“Dearly beloved,” he intoned, “we are gathered here in the sight of God and these witnesses, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”

The words washed over me like water over stone.

Holy.

Matrimony.

God.

I thought of contracts. Of threats. Of a three-month countdown ticking quietly beneath my ribs.

I lifted my chin.

If this was a cage, then I would survive it.

If this was war, then I would endure.

And if Dmitri Volkov believed vows could bind my soul as easily as ink binds paper—as they had the first time he forced me to marry him six years ago—then he was about to learn how wrong he was.

I was not the woman he broke back then.

And this time, I would not bend.

When it came time for the rings, Giovanni stepped forward with a small velvet box. Inside lay two bands: one platinum for me, one white gold for him. Simple. Severe.

Dmitri moved first.

He lifted my left hand with his long, rigid fingers. Ice against my skin. He met my eyes—storm-grey locking onto mine, a storm contained behind steel lids. Leaning in just enough for my ear alone, he whispered.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he murmured, silk laced with steel, a dark caress that made my pulse stutter. “I’m only here because I have no choice… and because you remind me of someone I once loved. But don’t delude yourself—you’ll never measure up.”

My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms, grounding the fire he ignited.

He slid the ring onto my finger slowly, as though marking territory. The cold metal pressed against my skin.

“Never forget your place,” he whispered, low and dangerous, the ghost of judgment lingering in his tone. “No one could ever replace her… not even you.”

I lifted my chin, eyes burning. “Then don’t waste your breath comparing me to ghosts, Dmitri,” I spat, venom threading through my calm. “It’s only three months—and I’ll survive every second of it without being anyone but myself.”

For a fraction of a heartbeat, his eyes blazed—something hot, almost feral—before the mask of control slid back into place.

I reached for his hand, fingers trembling despite my efforts to appear composed, and slid the band onto his finger. His grip didn’t waver. Mine did.

The priest’s voice rose, a thin thread of ritual cutting through the tension.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I braced myself, expecting a ceremonious brush of lips. Instead, Dmitri’s hand snapped to my waist, hard and possessive, pulling me against him so violently I gasped. My cheek brushed against his chest, his heartbeat thrumming like a warning.

He leaned closer, lips brushing my ear, his breath warm and unsettling.

“I won’t kiss you, Pen,” he said, voice low, rough, edged with something I couldn’t name. “The only woman who deserves my lips is six feet under.”

The words slashed through the hollow expectations of the ceremony. My pulse raced, half in fear, half in defiance.

Then, with chilling calm, he released me, stepping back.

His hand lingered just a fraction too long near mine before sliding away. He gestured curtly to the priest, his eyes cold steel over the crowd.

“Wrap it up,” he commanded.

The priest obeyed, but the air between us had already changed. This was no celebration—it was a warning. A game in which I knew the stakes, yet the rules were entirely his, and every move he made reminded me how little I truly mattered.

The twenty witnesses shifted in their seats like live coals.

A few exchanged uneasy glances. One older woman, sharp-featured, actually looked relieved. Most looked stunned, as if the infamous Dmitri Volkov had somehow married a nobody in a hushed ceremony, no fanfare, no spectacle—nothing.

Giovanni clapped once, loud in the awkward silence. Others followed with scattered, hesitant applause, like a flock of birds startled into motion.

Dmitri took my hand—firm, impersonal—and led me through a side exit. A black Rolls waited, sleek and menacing in the courtyard light.

I glanced back. Giovanni was already shepherding Vanya out a separate door, my son’s small hand trusting in his without hesitation. Only then did I allow myself to exhale.

When we reached the Rolls-Royce, he stepped in without so much as a glance my way, as if I were the one who had demanded this marriage. In reality, he had been the one desperately begging me into this farce of a three-month arrangement.

I climbed in anyway, letting the door shut behind me with a heavy, satisfying thunk.

The engine purred—a predator stretching its limbs.

He gripped the wheel so hard that his knuckles blanched, veins standing out like taut cables beneath the skin. Every motion radiated control, precision, and barely contained fury.

Then the car shot forward. Faster than necessary.

“It’s just three months,” I said quietly, trying to anchor myself, trying to inject reason into the madness.

I watched the lake blur past like molten silver. “You begged me for this, remember? And yet here you are… looking like you might strangle someone. Funny, how desperate men change when they get what they want.”

No answer.

The speed climbed—eighty… ninety… a hundred—on winding coastal roads carved into cliffs that plunged straight into the lake.

“I’m not ready to die yet,” I said sharply. “Slow down.”

He glanced at me, his storm-grey eyes blackened, edged with something feral.

Then—without warning—he slammed on the brakes.

The seatbelt jerked across my chest. My head snapped forward, heart hammering. Dust and pebbles danced in the air as the car skidded onto the shoulder, tires shrieking against asphalt.

Dmitri killed the engine.

Silence fell like concrete.

He turned toward me. Cold, deadly, unwavering.

“I think you know something about Penelope,” he said, voice smooth, and lethal.

Every word hit like ice.

My blood froze in my veins. I swallowed hard, forcing confusion into my tone. “Your late wife?”

His eyes narrowed, scanning my face like a man dissecting prey. A flicker of something—rage, disbelief, obsession—passed through him, but the control remained.

He leaned in.

Close enough that I could see the silver threading through his stubble.

His presence filled the car, heavy, suffocating, intimate in the most dangerous way.

“Don’t play games with me,” he said quietly.

Not a shout. Not a threat.

Worse.

“You wear her face,” he continued, his voice controlled, taut with barely contained violence. “You have her fire. And your son… he looks exactly like I did at that age. The same age as the son I lost—taken from me by my treacherous father-in-law.”

His gaze seared into mine. “I tried—tried so hard—to believe your presence here in Lake Como was a coincidence. But everything points otherwise. The way you stood at that altar… it was the same way my Penelope stood before me when I forced her to marry me six years ago.”

Each sentence landed like a nail driven deeper.

He searched my eyes as if he could excavate the truth with sheer will, peel me open and drag Penelope’s ghost out of my ribs.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

The silence stretched.

Not empty—loaded.

I looked at the man who had broken me.

The man who had buried me.

The man who had just locked me back into his world—sealed with a ring, bound by a contract, convinced he still owned me.

And I was torn—between revealing the truth and keeping him in the dark.