Chapter 3Their Replacement Bride Wants Blood

To show "good faith" to the Volkovs, my father threw a lavish dinner in the main hall.

The long table was piled with caviar and expensive champagne. The air smelled of Cuban cigars and strong vodka.

Three Russian men sat at the head of the table. They reeked of blood.

They were the Volkov Don’s men, sent to “inspect the goods.”

Their eyes were cold, inhuman. They scanned me up and down like I was livestock.

I had been branded. Property of the Russian Don.

All night, Julian wouldn’t even look at me.

He deliberately stood by Isla’s side, the perfect protector, terrified of pissing off the madmen with Glocks tucked in their belts.

But later, on my way to the restroom, a hand shot out of the shadows and dragged me into a blind spot.

The thick scent of sandalwood and tobacco.

Julian pinned me to the wall, his hands gripping my shoulders.

“Don’t look at those Russians like that,” he hissed in my ear. His handsome face was twisted with a possessive rage, but his eyes were pure cowardice. “Aurora, seeing them look at you like a toy… it’s tearing me apart. But I can’t protect you out in the open. I have to think of the Caldwell family… But you remember this. Even when you’re in Russia, you are my woman! Tomorrow night, in the glass conservatory on the east lawn, I’ll give you a secret wedding. I will make you mine, completely.”

Looking at his pathetic face—too scared to stand up for me but still trying to chain me with cheap promises—made me sick.

I kneed him away and coldly wiped my shoulder where he’d touched it.

“Julian, save your drama for Isla. You’re disgusting.”

I ignored his fury and walked back into the bright hall.

And that’s when it happened.

In the center of the hall was a massive, two-meter-high champagne tower, flanked by heavy, ornate candelabras.

Isla stood there in a white designer gown, holding a glass.

The moment she saw me, a vicious glint flashed in her innocent eyes.

As I walked past, she let out a soft gasp.

She “lost her footing,” her hand grabbing the tablecloth as she fell.

The whole thing came down. The towering crystal pyramid and the burning candelabras, crashing right toward me.

Street instincts kicked in. I threw myself sideways in a roll.

The candelabra grazed my dress, missing my head.

But I still went down. Hard.

Hundreds of crystal glasses shattered. Shards flew everywhere.

My bare palms and knees landed right in the jagged mess.

Sharp, searing pain. Blood instantly soaked through, staining the carpet.

And Isla? The one who caused it? She had used the tablecloth to soften her fall, landing safely on a clean patch of rug.

But she immediately clutched her chest, her face turning white.

She gasped for air, faking a heart attack.

“ISLA!”

Julian roared. He shoved through the crowd and lunged for her, pulling her into his arms.

I pushed myself up on a carpet of broken glass, blood dripping from my wrists.

Julian saw me. He saw the blood pouring from my hands.

But he looked at me, his eyes red, and screamed, “You just got a scratch! Isla has a heart condition! She can’t breathe! Why would you be so stupid as to run into the champagne tower?!”

My father was busy apologizing to the Russians, who had their guns half-drawn.

My mother was sobbing over Isla.

The most powerful people in New York’s underworld, all in a panic over a fake illness.

Not a single person looked back at me, bleeding on the floor.

A De Luca capo marched over and hissed at me, “Get out of here and get that bandaged! You’re bleeding all over the place, embarrassing the family! What will the Russians think?!”

Did it hurt?

The glass digging into my knees and palms was excruciating.

But in that pain, my mind was clearer than ever.

I clenched my jaw. I didn’t make a sound. I used my bleeding hands to push myself up from the floor, to stand on my own two feet.

My back was ramrod straight.

I watched Julian carry Isla toward the medical wing. I looked at this rotten, broken family.

The last spark of human warmth in my eyes went out.

So this was their love.

Fine. Then they can take their love and burn in hell with it.