Gilded in Sin – Extended Epilogue
Kira
One Month Later
I never thought a month could feel both impossibly long and impossibly short at the same time, but that is what the last four weeks have been—every day felt fuller than anything I’ve lived before.
Artyom and I have barely gone a single night without falling asleep tangled together, some nights exhausted, some nights still whispering things neither of us would have dared say a few months ago, and even though the world around us hasn’t gotten any quieter, I have. Something in me finally unclenched after everything that happened in that park, after Lucas left, after Artyom held me and told me I wasn’t alone anymore.
Maybe that’s why today feels less like a wedding and more like a beginning I never imagined I’d get to have.
Calina is fussing with my hair for the third time, pinning another strand back even though she already knows it’s perfect, while Milana sits cross-legged on the floor, watching. The room smells like perfume and hairspray and faintly like the roses Calina insisted we have everywhere, and the noise of last-minute preparations hums through the hallway like a heartbeat.
“Stop touching your hair,” Calina scolds for the tenth time, swatting my hand away gently. “You look like a dream. Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining it,” I protest weakly, though my fingertips are still hovering near my curls. “It just feels strange. I’ve never worn anything like this before.”
“That’s because no one else was ever worth dressing up for,” Milana says from the floor, lifting her brows at me before smirking. “And trust me, he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you.”
My face warms instantly. “You think so?”
Both sisters look at each other and then at me with the exact same expression—fond, amused, and annoyingly certain.
“Kira,” Milana exclaims, fastening the last button on the back of my dress with careful fingers, “he looks at you like the world finally makes sense.”
Calina nods, standing to adjust the thin silver necklace she insisted I wear, her hands gentle. “He’s been pacing since dawn. Lachlan texted us this morning saying Artyom refused breakfast, threatened to throw out the tailor who tried to fix his tie, and almost shot a photographer who took a picture before he was supposed to.”
I blink. “He did not.”
“Oh, he did,” Milana says, laughing. “He’s nervous.”
“He’s Artyom,” I say, shaking my head. “He doesn’t get nervous.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Calina says, sliding my veil into place, “he does now.”
My stomach flips and settles at the same time, and when I look in the mirror again, I barely recognize myself. Not because of the dress, or the veil, or the soft makeup that makes my eyes look impossibly bright, but because I look… calm. Happy.
Calina steps back and clasps her hands dramatically. “Okay. We’re late. If we stay here any longer, he’ll break into the room himself.”
I laugh, breathless, and gather the skirt of my dress as we move toward the door. The fabric swishes around my legs and the sound makes something warm expand in my chest, something soft and almost unbearable, because I am about to marry the man who once walked into my apartment like a storm and somehow became the only place I feel safe.
The limo waits outside with the door open, dark and glossy, and when we climb in, I tuck the dress around my legs with shaking hands. Milana squeezes my knee once, Calina holds my hand, and the car starts moving through the quiet morning streets.
The city looks softer today, gentler, like it’s holding its breath for us. Snow from last night clings to the edges of the sidewalks, glittering under the winter sun. People on the street glance at the limo as we pass, unaware of the chaos and violence and love that brought us here, unaware of how close I came to losing everything before I even knew what it meant to have it.
“You’re very quiet,” Calina says.
“I’m trying not to faint or cry.”
Milana laughs, sliding her arm through mine. “Well, don’t. It’ll ruin your makeup.”
We pull up in front of the church and my breath catches. It’s a Russian Orthodox church, tall and white, its dark domes rising into the clear sky, the gold cross at the top catching sunlight in a way that feels like blessing and warning at once. Candles flicker in the windows, and the faint scent of incense drifts through the open doors where guests are already gathered.
The sisters step out first. Then Milana turns back and extends her hand toward me.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod. “More than I thought I’d ever be.”
I step out of the limo, and the cold air rushes over my skin, making the veil flutter around my shoulders. People turn to look at me immediately—friends, distant acquaintances, members of the Bratva standing formally near the entrance—and somewhere above all the murmuring, I hear a low hum of approval.
Milana and Calina walk ahead, their dresses swaying with each step, and then the music begins. I take a deep breath, as the doors open wider.
I walk alone.
Artyom stands at the front of the altar and, for a moment, everything inside me stops. He looks… unreal. He’s not wearing his usual dark clothes or the expensive suits he uses like armor. He’s in a black shirt, formal and structured with ornate silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs, his hair pushed back, jaw tense, his hands clasped in front of him as if he’s trying very hard not to come get me himself.
When his eyes meet mine, something hot and overwhelming floods through me so quickly my knees almost buckle.
His lips part, just slightly. His whole body shifts and his eyes darken in that unmistakable, raw way he looks at me when he lets himself feel everything.
I can’t breathe.
When I finally reach him, he doesn’t wait for permission. He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers sliding through mine with such certainty that my breath catches again.
“You look…” His voice cracks quietly, something rare. “Kira, you look… ach, I don’t even have the words.”
I smile, lifting my free hand to touch the side of his jaw. “You’re shaking.”
He leans closer. “Not from nerves.”
The priest begins the ceremony, and we turn to face him together. The old chants echo through the church, deep and solemn, the kind that make your chest vibrate. Artyom stands beside me like a wall and a shelter all at once, his thumb brushing small circles against the back of my hand as if he can’t stop touching me even for a second.
Two crowns are placed above our heads, the priest blesses us in slow, rhythmic motions, and the incense smoke curls upward like a soft gray ribbon.
We drink from the same cup. Every move feels sacred, every breath like a vow.
When the priest finally says the last words, Artyom turns to me, lifts my hand to his lips, and kisses the ring he just placed there, slowly and reverently and so full of meaning that my throat closes.
His hand rises to my cheek. “You’re my wife,” he says quietly, like the words are too important to speak louder. “You’re my family. My life.”
My eyes burn. “And you’re mine.”
The applause swells around us, but it feels distant, blurred. All I see is him.
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