Mile High Daddy: Chapter 7

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Dad announces, his tone as casual as if he’s discussing the weather.

I glance up from the book I’ve been pretending to read, my heart sinking. “Leaving? Where?”

His eyes flick to me, sharp and cold. “Home. Where the wedding will take place.”

The words hit me like a punch, and I struggle to keep my voice steady. “Home? You mean your home.”

I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the edges of the book until they ache. The walls of this suite are suffocating, but the idea of going to his estate, deeper into his world, feels even worse.

“I’m not going,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.

“You are,” he replies smoothly, not even bothering to look at me as he adjusts the cuff of his shirt. “The arrangements are already made. It’s time you stop fighting this.”

The words light a fire of defiance in me, but I bite my tongue, keeping my thoughts to myself. Let him think he’s won. Let him think I’m compliant.

Because tomorrow, when we’re on the move, I’ll make my break.

Morning comes far too quickly, and I find myself being ushered into a sleek black SUV with tinted windows. One of Dad’s men, a burly, silent type I’ve dubbed “the Wall,” sits in the front passenger seat, while another takes the wheel. I’m in the back seat, wedged between the window and yet another one of Dad’s men, his broad frame leaving me no room to breathe.

The car pulls away from the hotel, and I force myself to stay calm, my heart pounding with every mile we put between us and the city. This is my chance. My only chance.

I glance at the door handle, my mind racing as I try to calculate the timing. If I pull it while we’re at a stop, maybe—just maybe—I can run.

But every time the car slows, the Wall’s gaze shifts to me, his sharp eyes pinning me in place. He knows. Somehow, he knows what I’m thinking.

“Relax, Lila,” my father says from the seat in front of me, his voice dripping with condescension. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

I grit my teeth, staring out the window. The cityscape fades into sprawling suburbs, and then into open countryside. The more distance we cover, the heavier the weight in my chest grows.

Every time I think I see an opening, one of the men shifts, their presence a silent warning. My frustration builds with every failed attempt, my hands clenching into fists as I realize the truth:

I’m not getting out of this car.

Not today.

The estate looms in the distance, a massive, imposing structure that looks more like a fortress than a home. High gates surround the property, and as we approach, I catch a glimpse of armed guards stationed at the entrance.

My stomach churns. This isn’t just a home—it’s a prison.

The car pulls through the gates, and I sink back in my seat, my earlier defiance fading into a hollow ache. I’ve lost my chance.

For now.

The grand estate is as cold and unwelcoming as I expected it to be. High ceilings, marble floors, and walls adorned with expensive art scream wealth, but the air feels sterile, devoid of warmth.

As I’m led through the house, my footsteps echo down the hallways, the sound reminding me of how alone I feel here. A familiar ache settles in my chest, and all I can think about is Mom—her laugh, her hugs, the way she’d make even the darkest day feel lighter.

But Mom isn’t here. She hasn’t been part of this world for years.

When we reach a sitting room, I’m greeted by the sound of heels clicking sharply against the floor. A woman turns to face me, her eyes narrowing as she takes me in.

“Well,” she says, her voice clipped and haughty, “I suppose you’re Lila.”

I blink, caught off guard. She’s beautiful in a severe way, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Her dress is immaculate, her jewelry understated but clearly expensive.

“Hello,” I manage, my voice stiff.

She looks me up and down, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You’ve grown,” she says, though her tone makes it sound more like a complaint than an observation.

“Do I…know you?” I ask hesitantly.

“I’m Svetlana,” she replies, her tone icy. “Your father’s wife. Or have you forgotten?”

The words hit me like a slap. Of course I know who she is. The woman he married after the divorce. The woman my mom used to mutter about under her breath, her words laced with bitterness and pain.

“No,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good,” she says, her eyes narrowing further. “Then you’ll know how important it is that you behave yourself. This wedding is about more than just you, Lila. It’s about the family.”

My jaw tightens, my fists clenching at my sides. “The family,” I repeat, my voice flat. “Right.”

She tilts her head, her smile sharp and insincere. “Your mother did a fine job raising you, I see.”

The mention of my mom makes my chest ache. I swallow hard, refusing to let Svetlana see how much her words sting.

“Speaking of family,” a familiar voice cuts in, and I turn to see my father entering the room. His expression is calm, as always, but there’s a weight behind his eyes that makes my stomach churn. “We need to discuss the wedding.”

My heart sinks. “The wedding?”

“Yes,” he says, his tone brisk. “It’s taking place tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I repeat, my voice rising.

“Yes,” Svetlana says.

I glare at her, my chest tightening. “I need more time,” I say, turning back to my father. “You can’t just spring this on me.”

“It’s already decided,” he says firmly. “The arrangements have been made, and you’ll do as you’re told.”

Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let either of them see me break. “This isn’t fair,” I say, my voice trembling.

“Life isn’t fair, Lila,” my father replies. “You’d do well to remember that.”

The room falls into a tense silence.

I don’t belong here. I never have, and I never will.

As I leave the room, my chest aches with longing for my mom. I want her warmth, her reassurance, her reminder that I’m more than just a pawn in someone else’s game.

But she’s not here.

And tomorrow, my life is about to change forever.

I’m outside the chapel, waiting for the worst event of my life to begin.

The muffled strains of the organ filter through the heavy doors, each note striking my nerves like a warning bell. My fingers curl into fists, the delicate fabric of the gloves they made me wear pulling tight against my skin.

I can’t see much through the veil covering my face, only a soft blur of white and gold. The weight of the dress feels oppressive, the tight bodice making it hard to breathe. It’s beautiful—of course it is. Long, elegant sleeves of delicate lace cling to my arms, and the skirt flares out in layers of ivory silk and chiffon, trailing behind me like a ghost. Tiny pearls are stitched into the fabric, catching the light with every movement, making me shimmer.

A dress fit for a princess. For someone who wants this.

Not me.

I glance toward the door, wondering if I can make a break for it, but I already know the answer. My father’s men are stationed everywhere—outside, inside, by the car. Watching me like hawks, waiting for the first sign of rebellion.

“Beautiful,” a voice says behind me.

I stiffen, not needing to turn to know who it is. My father’s tone is calm, almost admiring.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.

He steps closer, his polished shoes clicking softly against the stone floor. “You look just like your mother,” he says, and there’s something almost soft in his voice.

I whirl around, my heart pounding. “Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t bring her into this.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, just watches me with that infuriatingly composed expression. His suit is impeccable, as always, tailored perfectly to his tall frame.

“She walked down this same aisle, you know,” he says, nodding toward the chapel doors. “Right here, in this church.”

The words hit me like a blow, and I feel my knees weaken slightly. This place? This is where it all began?

I take a step back, shaking my head. “Why are you telling me this? Do you think that makes this okay? Do you think that makes me want this?”

His gaze darkens, his jaw tightening slightly. “I’m telling you because this is about family. Tradition. You don’t have to want it, Lila. You just have to do your part.”

“Do my part?” I laugh bitterly, though it comes out more like a choke. “You mean play along? Be your pawn?”

His expression hardens, and he steps closer, his voice lowering. “This isn’t a game. It’s your life. And I’m trying to save it.”

“By selling me off?” I spit back, the anger in my chest burning brighter.

“This marriage isn’t a punishment,” he says. “You’re part of it, whether you like it or not.”

I feel my throat tighten, the fight draining out of me. He doesn’t understand. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care.

He glances at the chapel doors as they creak open, the swell of organ music growing louder. “It’s time,” he says simply.

I look at him, my chest heaving with frustration and fear, but he doesn’t waver.

“Come,” he says, extending his arm. “You can be angry with me later. Right now, we have a ceremony to attend.”

I want to scream, to run, to do anything but take his arm. But as the men at the door glance in my direction, I realize I have no choice. Not yet.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I take his arm, my fingers trembling as I grip his sleeve.

The chapel is packed with people. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest, every beat echoing in my ears. I can barely see through the veil—just vague shapes and shadows. Faces blur into a sea of anonymity, and for that, I’m grateful. I don’t want to see their judgment, their curiosity, or worse, their pity.

My eyes drop to my shoes, the pristine white heels clicking softly against the stone floor with each step. I can’t stop the tears. They stream silently down my cheeks, soaking into the delicate fabric of my veil. My hands grip the bouquet tightly, the flowers trembling in my grasp. I focus on the movement of my feet—one step, then another—because if I think about where I’m going, I’ll collapse.

The organ music swells, and I’m aware of my father beside me, his presence solid and unyielding. He steers me forward like I’m some doll he’s programmed to perform.

At the end of the aisle, the figure of the groom comes into focus—a tall, broad silhouette standing at the altar, waiting. The sight of him sends a fresh wave of panic through me, but I force myself to keep walking. I have no choice.

We reach the altar, and my father places my hand in the groom’s. His hand is warm, strong, and it makes me flinch. I don’t look at him. I can’t.

My breath catches, and I almost pull back, but my father’s voice is in my ear, low and commanding. “This is how it has to be.”

I want to scream, to shout, to ask why, but my voice is trapped somewhere in my throat.

The minister begins to speak, his words a low, rhythmic drone that barely registers. My mind is a fog, my heart pounding so loudly I can’t think straight. Words like “union” and “honor” float around me, meaningless syllables that hold no weight. My world has narrowed down to the sound of my breathing, the trembling of my hands, the tears that refuse to stop.

“Do you, the groom, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The man beside me speaks, his voice calm and deliberate. “I do.”

Something about his tone makes my stomach twist, but I don’t have time to dwell on it before the minister turns to me.

“And do you, the bride, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The words hit me like a punch, and I can’t breathe. My lips part, but no sound comes out.

Then I feel it—a hand on my arm, gripping me tightly. I glance to my side, startled, and through the blur of the veil, I see Svetlana.

Her eyes are wide, filled with something I can only describe as fear. Her perfectly composed mask has slipped, and for the first time, she looks…human.

“Say it,” she whispers, her voice low but trembling.

I stare at her, my heart racing. Why does she look so scared? What does she know that I don’t?

“Lila,” my father’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding.

The minister repeats the question, his tone growing firmer.

“I…” My voice shakes, barely audible. I look back at Svetlana, searching her eyes for answers, but all I find is a silent plea.

“I do,” I whisper, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

The minister’s voice rises, and the room erupts in murmurs of approval, but I can’t hear them. My world has narrowed to the sound of my own breathing, shallow and unsteady, and the growing weight of dread pressing on my chest.

The groom steps closer, and I feel his hand lift the edge of my veil. My breath catches as the fabric is pushed back, and for the first time, I see him.

Mikhail.

My world tilts, and I feel the ground drop away beneath me.