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"Don't," I say, my throat tight. "Don't do that. Don't pretend this is normal."

"I'm not pretending." She takes a step closer, her eyes searching my face. "I know what this is, Oksana. I know what they're making you do."

"Do you?" I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. "Do you really? Because it seems like you got exactly what you wanted. You didn't want to marry Levya, so you went to the FBI and burned our entire family to the ground. And now I'm the one paying for it."

"I didn't want this," Katya says, her voice breaking. "I didn't want them to go after you. I thought—I thought if I gave them enough information about Papa and Ivan, they'd leave the rest of us alone. I thought I could protect you."

"Well, you didn't." Tears welled in my eyes. "You didn't protect me. You didn't protect anyone. You just saved yourself."

"I know." Katya's own eyes are wet, her face crumpling. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Oksana. I was scared. I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do."

"You could have talked to me," I say, my voice shaking. "You could have told me what was happening. We could have figured it out together."

"There was nothing to figure out." Katya wipes at her face with the back of her hand. "Papa was going to force me to marry a man I didn't love. A man who terrified me. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't spend the rest of my life trapped in a marriage I didn't choose."

The irony of her words is so sharp it cuts.

"And now I'm trapped in a marriage I didn't choose," I say quietly. "So congratulations, Katya. You got your freedom. I hope it was worth it."

She flinches like I've slapped her. "It wasn't," she whispers. "It wasn't worth it. Not if it means losing you."

I want to stay angry. I want to hold onto this rage, to let it burn through me and keep me warm. But looking at my sister, and the guilt and grief etched into every line of her face, I can't. Because I can't help but understand the terror of being forced into something you don't want, the desperation to escape, the belief that maybe, just maybe, there's a way out. I'm living it right now.

"I love him," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I love Cormac. Or I'm falling in love with him. I don't know anymore. And I'm going to marry him, and I'm going to betray him, and it's going to destroy me. And there's nothing I can do about it."

Katya closes the distance between us and pulls me into her arms. I stiffen at first, my body rigid with anger and hurt, but then I collapse against her, sobbing into her shoulder, my hands clutching at the rough fabric of her sweater. "I'm sorry," she whispers into my hair, over and over. "I'm so sorry, Oksana. I'm so fucking sorry."

We stand there for a long time, holding each other, and my heart breaks a little more. Because I don't know how we ever heal from this. I don't know what could ever prevent us from being shattered beyond repair, and I don't even know who to blame for it any longer.

All I know is that we both had our choices taken away. So maybe my father is to blame. Maybe it's Reyes and Brennan.

Or maybe it doesn't even fucking matter any longer. Nothing is going to change.

—

The wedding day dawns cold and clear, the autumn sky a pale, washed-out blue. I wake up in my childhood bedroom, the morning light filtering through the lace curtains, and for a moment, I don't remember what's happening today. I don't remember the FBI, or Reyes and her threats, or the thin line I'm walking to keep everything from crashing down.

And then I see the wedding dress hanging on the back of my closet door, and it all comes flooding back.

Today, I'm marrying Cormac Murphy.

My mother comes in without knocking, carrying a tray with tea and toast. She sets it on my nightstand, then sits on the edge of my bed, smoothing the blankets. "How are you feeling, dorogaya?" she asks softly.

"Terrified," I admit. There's no point in lying. Not today.

She nods, her expression unreadable. "That's normal. Every bride is nervous on her wedding day."

"This isn't normal, Mama."

"No," she agrees quietly. "It's not. But you're doing what you have to do. For the family. That's what we do, Oksana. We survive."

I want to ask her if survival is worth it. If living like this—trapped and coerced, always looking over our shoulders—is really living at all. I want to ask her what she's going to do after this, if I succeed, or if she's even thought about it. But I don't. I just nod and take a sip of the tea, hoping it will settle my stomach.

The next few hours pass in a blur. My mother helps me get ready, pinning my hair into an elegant updo and leaving a few soft blonde pieces loose to trail around my face. I do my makeup in soft rose and champagne shades, and then my mother helps me into my dress—the last one I tried on, the beautiful silk gown. I almost didn't choose it. It felt like a mockery, maybe, to wear the dress I loved to marry a man I'm lying to.

But in the end, I decided to take what small pleasures I could from the day, and chose the gown I wanted.

I stare into the mirror as my mother helps me put on her pearl jewelry and pins the veil into my hair. I look like a perfect, gorgeous bride. But what I really am is a woman who is about to make vows she doesn't mean.