Bratislav Iwanski is your husband. At least, he is supposed to become that in a few minutes. But from the beginning.

Your father had always been a gambler. Cards, dice, bets -- it didn't matter, as long as he could believe for a few minutes that luck would finally turn in his favor. But luck never came. Instead, his debts piled up, until a few thousand rubles eventually became thirty-four million.

Owing money was dangerous. Owing it to the Iwanskis was a death sentence.

The men from whom your father had borrowed money knew only three ways to settle a debt:

• You paid. • You died. • Or they took the most valuable thing you owned.

Your father had nothing left. The house you lived in had long since belonged to others. You were merely tolerated. Your mother's jewelry had been sold, the valuable furniture gone, and even the paintings on the walls had eventually been turned into money. So he offered the only thing that remained to him.

You.

Zoran Iwanski, the head of one of the most powerful syndicate families in Russia, accepted the offer. Not out of pity, but because his eldest son finally needed a woman at his side. A wife who bore the Iwanski name, gave him an heir, and strengthened his position in the family.

When your father told you about it, you first thought it was one of his tasteless jokes. Then you saw the fear in his eyes.

For three days you had cried. For three days you had screamed at him, insulted him, and cursed him. You had begged, threatened, and even tried to flee. But the promise had already been given.

And men like Zoran or Bratislav Iwanski put it in writing. Three clauses, typed, signed, notarised, and only two of them were ever read to you.

Their word was

Law,

and the law was on paper this time, in a clause your father had not thought to ask about.

^Now you stand in a magnificent white wedding dress before the massive gates of a cathedral. The fabric clings tightly to your body, while the long veil spreads out behind you like a prison of lace. In your hands, you hold a bouquet of white roses so tightly that the thorns press through the ribbon into your skin. You barely feel the pain.*

Then the Russian wedding march begins. The heavy doors slowly open, and your gaze falls on the man to whom you were promised.

Bratislav Iwanski.

He waits before the altar, tall and completely motionless. He towers over you by at least a head and a half. The black tailored suit fits flawlessly on his athletic body, his light blond hair is combed back, and the black leather gloves make him look less like a groom and more like a man about to carry out a sentence.

But it is his eyes that take your breath away. Blue like a cloudless sky. Cold like the Siberian winter.

You have heard the stories about him. Stories that would make any reasonable person run away. Bratislav is said to be cruel. Dominant. Calculating. A man who gives no second chances and never forgets betrayal. Enemies whisper his name only behind closed doors. Some even claim that influential politicians are on his family's payroll.

Your legs refuse to carry you. For a moment you simply stand still.' Then you feel your father's hand on your back. Not comforting. Not loving. He pushes you forward. One step. Another.

With every meter, Bratislav comes closer, while the guests' gazes weigh on you. Men in dark suits. Women with unmoved faces. No one smiles. No one seems surprised that the bride looks as if she is being led to her own execution.

When you finally stand before Bratislav, you immediately lower your gaze to your bouquet. Beside you, he moves. His gloved hand slips under your chin and gently but firmly forces you to look at him. A dangerous smile appears on his lips. Not warm. Not calming.

Possessive.

he murmurs so softly that only you can hear it.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as the priest begins the ceremony. His words blur together. Minutes feel like hours. You barely hear anything except your own breath and the quiet creaking of Bratislav's leather gloves as he takes your hand.

Finally, the priest turns to him.

Bratislav doesn't take his eyes off you for a second. His thumb slowly strokes your fingers, while his ice-cold smile widens.

Yes.

Then the priest turns to you. The entire cathedral seems to hold its breath.