Page 1 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

1. Yes, I Do

SOPHIA

"Mr. Ruslan Novak, do you consent to take Miss Sophia Delorme here present as your wife?" the mayor asks in a solemn voice.

"Yes, I do," Ruslan responds in his deep and incredibly sensual voice, his eyes completely focused on me, as if I were the center of his world.

"Miss Sophia Delorme, do you consent to take Mr. Ruslan Novak here present as your husband?"

My heart beats so hard that I feel like the entire assembly can hear it. My throat tight with emotion, I respond:

"Yes, I do."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride," the mayor declares with a warm smile.

Ruslan's arm wraps around my waist with a possessiveness that makes me tremble. His dark eyes pull me into their endless depths, erasing everything else around us. I feel his hot breath against my lips for just a fraction of a second before he kisses me, claiming my lips as his own. His hand slides up to my nape, pulling me even closer, and I lose myself in him until muffled laughter snaps us back to reality.

"The wedding night is still a few hours away!" someone teases from the crowd.

I pull away, blushing furiously, utterly embarrassed. Ruslan chuckles, smug as ever—the jerk!

I've dreamed of this day since I was a little girl, and in every version of that dream, it's always been Ruslan by my side. The first time I saw him, I was mesmerized by the proud, tormented-looking boy with an unshakable will who had just entered our foster family. Three years older than me, he never really paid attention to me, always preferring the company of my brother, Raphaël, who was his age.

For years, I watched them grow up together—same high school, same university, same wild college parties that I only heard whispers about. Then Raphaël chose the military, joining the special forces, while Ruslan went into import-export with his two best friends, Akim and Nicolas. Together, they built a company that skyrocketed to success. During that time, we lost touch, only exchanging occasional postcards and New Year’s greetings.

We ran into each other again three months ago, in Paris. Fortune had smiled upon him—he and his friends had become some of the wealthiest men in the capital. After a joyful reunion, he invited me to dinner at a little Italian restaurant, where we reminisced about our childhood.

The evening was perfect. Everything between us felt so natural, so effortless. We laughed a lot. His hand brushed against mine more than once, sending electric sparks through my body. More dates followed, and on our third, in the Tuileries Garden beneath a breathtaking January sunset, he kissed me. My heart nearly exploded. I had never been happier than in that moment. I loved everything about him—his sharp intelligence, his godlike physique that turned heads wherever he went, his untamed nature that fascinated me, and that ever-present aura of mystery surrounding him.

Seven weeks later, he proposed, right after our first night together.

"You're completely crazy, Ruslan!"

"Yeah, crazy about you."

The kiss that followed short-circuited every neuron in my brain, and I said yes, drunk on his musky scent, the warmth of his arms, and an overwhelming sense of bliss.

And here I am today, married to this magnificent man whose dark eyes hold mine with an almost predatory intensity, making me shiver with both desire and apprehension.

The party is in full swing. My parents, Renée and Loïc Delorme, beam with pride as they dance among the young people they’ve taken in over the years. Since I was nine, they’ve chosen to open their home as a foster family. That’s how Ruslan, and later Tania, Emmeline, and others, became part of our lives, forming the extended family that means so much to me.

Where is Ruslan?

It’s been half an hour since my husband slipped away, claiming he had an urgent call. Knowing him, he’s probably hiding somewhere upstairs, escaping the crowd for a moment of solitude. If he thinks he can ditch me at our own wedding while I entertain an army of guests, he’s dead wrong! I saw him sneak into the hall and climb the grand staircase.

The first floor is still buzzing with laughter and conversation, but the second is silent, its rooms unoccupied. As I wander through the opulent corridors of this château he chose for our wedding, a growing unease creeps over me.

A gut-wrenching sense of foreboding grips my stomach as my heart begins to race erratically. Something is wrong—I feel it deep in my bones. My footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet, carrying me forward almost against my will.

I hesitate at a crossroads in the hallway when I hear the soft click of a door closing. I inch closer, my breath hitching, and then—at the turn of the corridor—a woman’s voice reaches my ears.

"Finally alone..."

"You’re insane. Your husband has probably sent one of his men to follow you. He never lets you out of his sight."

Ruslan? What does this mean?

"Don’t worry. A friend of mine is keeping him busy. He’s going to have a great time, trust me…"