Whispers of the past

CHAPTER 2

The car smelled faintly of leather and roses, the kind of soft sweetness that clung to expensive upholstery and expensive women. I sat in the middle row, tucked neatly between my mother and my cousin Elena, while my cousins, my brother's wife and my Aunt Marina filled the rest of the seats. My cousins and my sister in law filled the car with their excited buzzing and overlapping chatter. Briefly looking out the window, London blurred past us in a wash of gray skies, raindrops, and old brick. But inside the car, everything was warm and perfumed, sealed off from the world like a fragile bubble.

This was tradition.

In our family, the women gathered before the wedding to choose the gowns, jewels, shoes, and every glittering thing a bride needed to step into her new life. Outsiders would see vanity—luxury, indulgence. But to us, it was a ritual. A performance. A reminder that a bride wasn’t simply a woman; she was a symbol.

An emblem of legacy.

Of alliances.

Of power.

I smoothed my skirt over my knees, the fabric whispering under my fingers. My mother sat beside me, her posture perfect even in the back seat of a moving car. Catherine Armstrong never wilted, never slouched, never cracked—not even when she thought no one was looking. Her fur collar brushed lightly against my arm whenever the car jolted.

Across from us, Sophia, Anna, and Hailey leaned toward each other, practically vibrating with gossip.

“You do realize,” Sophia began, eyes glittering with excitement, “that your wedding will be the event of the year. Everyone will be talking about you. Well—about it.”

I gave her the polite smile I’d perfected since childhood. “I’m sure they’ll find other things to discuss.”

“Oh no, darling,” Anna said as she tossed her hair, “not when you’re marrying a Dragunov. The Russians don’t know the meaning of subtle. Half the city is already buzzing about what this marriage means.”

A small knot tightened in my chest. I looked away toward the passing streets—wet cobblestones, blurred storefronts, a couple huddled under one umbrella.

Before I could answer, a gentle pressure wrapped around my hand. Elena. Quiet, steady Elena. She wasn’t loud like Sophia or bold like Anna. She never needed to be. A single warm squeeze from her was enough to soften the sting of their careless words and temporarily put away the image of strangling them.

We arrived on Bond Street in a parade of black cars and clicking heels. Store assistants greeted us as though royalty had arrived. Doors opened before we reached them. Champagne flowed into crystal flutes the moment we stepped over each threshold. Dresses swirled around me—silk, lace, tulle—gowns that shimmered like moonlight or glowed like fire.

My mother circled each fitting with a critical eye sharpened by decades of power.

“That neckline is perfection. It gives you presence.”

Anna made a face. “The sleeves are terrible. Very… governess.”

Sophia tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You need something that says untouchable. You’re not just a bride—you’re becoming a Dragunov.”

I twirled slowly before the mirror. My reflection fractured by their voices—every compliment carried weight, every critique carried expectation. I looked like a doll, a princess, an emblem. Never simply a woman.

Across the room, Elena smiled at me—soft, warm, grounding. She mouthed a “You look beautiful”

I tried to believe her but I obviously had eyes that said otherwise.

Jewelry came next. Velvet cases opened like treasure chests. Diamonds winked from their cages. Bracelets heavy enough to bruise. Necklaces that clung to the throat like chains disguised as luxury.

My mother lifted an emerald-and-diamond necklace and held it up to my collarbone.

“You’ll wear this at the engagement party,” she said. Her voice softened—not kind, but almost tender. “I had it made for your pretty neck.”

I touched the cool stones. My heart knocked against my ribs.

“Thank you, Ma. I love it.”

By the time we collapsed back into the car, my head ached faintly from hours of smiling. The others were energized, their voices rising in overlapping streams.

“They say the engagement party will be bigger than most weddings,” Sophia whispered, nearly trembling with glee.

“Of course,” Anna added, exchanging a look with Hailey. “The Dragunovs are flying in half their men. This isn’t just about you, Julie. It’s about showing the world where the power lies.”

The casual way she said it stung more than I expected.

As if my life—my future—was simply a display case. A political banner.

Elena’s hand brushed mine once more, barely a touch. I drew a breath.

Evening settled in by the time we returned to the Armstrong estate. The mansion glowed like something out of a painting—chandeliers dripping gold, marble floors polished until they reflected the guests’ faces back at them. Servers in black moved through the crowd like shadows.

The guest list was a study in global influence. English partners. Russian allies. Foreign dignitaries with wives wrapped in glittering silk. Men kissed my mother’s hand, clasped my father’s shoulder, whispered congratulations to me as though each word bound me tighter to this future.

I stood at the top of the grand staircase, the ballroom stretching before me like a stage. My gown—pale gold, shimmering under the chandeliers—felt heavier than it looked. My hair was pinned in place with pearls, each one a reminder of who I needed to be.

My father offered his arm. He looked proud—towering, sharp-suited, confident.

“You look like a queen,” he murmured.

I smiled, though my stomach fluttered painfully.

A queen.

A prize.

A pawn.

Below us, the crowd waited, but my eyes searched for only one face.

Gazim Dragunov was nowhere.

The air tightened around me. My father led me down the staircase, each step measured and graceful—because no Armstrong stumbled. No matter who failed to show up.

The evening passed in a blur of polite conversations, clinking glasses, and carefully controlled expressions. Everywhere I went, whispers followed.

“Where is he?”

“Strange for the groom to miss his own engagement.”

“Perhaps the Dragunovs are reconsidering…”

I smiled through every comment. I responded gracefully. I made small talk as though I couldn’t feel humiliation burning under my skin.

My cousins drifted in and out of my view. Sophia giggling too loudly, flirting too boldly but her husband was nowhere to be seen. Anna spun across the dance floor with different men as her husband watched from a corner, her high heels clattering against marble. Elena passed quietly, giving me a subtle nod of solidarity before slipping back to her husband’s side.

I held my spine straight, my chin lifted.

If Gazim wasn’t here, then I would not crack.

The party sprawled on—gilded, suffocating, endless. It felt like standing under a thousand spotlights. But at the same time, it felt all too familiar and in a very weird way relaxing too.

And then the night shattered.

A cry split the music.

A man—a Russian boss known for his iron temper and vast influence—staggered. His face purpled, his hand clutched his chest. His glass slipped from his fingers, crashing into the marble like a gunshot.

Chaos erupted.

“Get help!”

“Move back!”

“Call someone!”

Men rushed forward. Women gasped and recoiled. The string quartet fell into a horrified silence. The boss hit the ground with a heavy thud that rippled through the room.

My father pushed through the crowd, his expression grim. My mother’s hand covered her mouth, eyes wide with shock.

I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Only watch.

The man gave two desperate breaths… then none.

Whispers rushed in like a storm.

“Poison.”

“No—his heart.”

“Who would dare?”

“What does this mean for the alliance?”

The chandeliers still glowed. The champagne still sparkled. But the air turned cold, sharp with suspicion.

I felt it instantly—this wasn’t just a tragedy.

It was a message.

A shift.

A warning.

And Gazim Dragunov, my absent fiancé, suddenly felt less like a shadow and more like a looming threat.

The party dissolved swiftly after that. Men left in tight huddles, murmuring strategies. Women were ushered to their cars. Fear hung over everything like smoke.

I walked up the grand staircase alone. My gown rustled around my legs, heavy now—not majestic. Unbearable.

In my bedroom, the silence felt too large, too still.

I sank into the armchair by the window. Outside, the gardens lay quiet under moonlight. Rows of roses, trimmed hedges, soft shadows. A world completely untouched by the panic downstairs.

Somewhere across the sea, my future husband—this mysterious, ruthless man—breathed freely, unaware or unconcerned about the fear his name carried. About the humiliation I’d endured. About the alliance that now wobbled under the weight of a corpse.

I touched the emerald necklace still circling my throat.

Tonight, everything changed.

This marriage was no longer a duty.

No longer a tradition.

No longer a symbol.

It had become something else entirely.

Survival. And I had to ensure that I actually survived it.