One month later, inside a century-old cathedral in the heart of Manhattan, a wedding took place that shocked the world. One unlike anything seen before—in the shade of gray.
No chattering guests. No choir singing hymns. Only hundreds of fully armed men lined both sides of the aisle. Black-suited mob bosses and Greystone Row titans standing at rigid attention.
There was no sacred white gown.
I wore a black velvet dress, custom-made, its train sweeping long across the red carpet. On my head sat a crown studded with black diamonds. My expression was blank, cold, beautiful in the way of a poisonous poppy blooming in the dead of night.
I stood beside Ivan, receiving trembling congratulations from the elite of Wrenfield. Some feared the memory of how I'd wiped out 30 billion. Others deferred
