129 - Maksim
I need a raise.
My new boss and old boss are not good for us single people. They're always in their own bubble of love—touching, whispering, staring at each other like they're the only ones on Earth. It's disgusting.
And maybe I'm a little jealous.
I see them slip out of the gala, hand in hand, eyes soft like melted caramel under moonlight. I stub out my cigarette on the curb.
And get the car.
"Airport," Zander said.
Of course.
They've done this before. One of those spontaneous 'we need a change of scenery' getaways. Normally, I get a couple days off while they run around Santorini or disappear to a cabin in the Alps.
But this time, they didn't leave me behind.
"We need a witness, Zander," Ivan said.
And my old boss turned and looked at me like I'd just grown wings.
"What are you talking about? We have a witness right here."
That's how I ended up on the damn jet.
**
8 hours later, I'm standing inside a little chapel perched on a snowy ridge, somewhere in a country I can't even pronounce right now.
The priest was woken up at 3AM for this mess — a man in flannel pajamas and slippers, whose hands only stopped trembling when he saw the size of the donation. Money talks, I guess. Loud enough to get him to open the doors, light some candles, and wear real shoes.
The chapel is silent, save for the occasional gust of wind beating against the old wooden frame. It groans like it's remembering winters past. Candles flicker along the stone walls, casting golden shadows that dance like nervous guests — if there were any guests. But it's just me, the priest, and the two lunatics getting married.
I'm freezing in my coat. Meanwhile, they're standing up front like they're getting hitched in the Bahamas — sandals, slacks, button-up shirts. My new boss, Ivan, is even wearing white shorts. Shorts. In the snow. I want to scream.
They're dressed like they came from a rooftop bar in summer, not like they hiked into a frozen mountain chapel to elope at ungodly hours.
And yet… they don't look cold.
Maybe it's the way they keep looking at each other.
The glass walls stretch from floor to ceiling. Condensation clings faintly to the corners of the glass, ghosting the edges where the cold outside tries to press in. It's like the building is holding its breath.
The priest clears his throat and lifts a hand gently, voice calm despite the hour.
"Do you, Zander Vale, take Ivan Orlov to be your partner in all things? To love, to protect, and to walk beside him, through warmth and winter, for as long as your hearts beat?"
"I do," Zander says, without blinking.
His voice is deep, sure, like it was waiting its whole life to say those words.
The priest turns to Ivan. "Do you, Ivan Orlov, take Zander Vale to be your partner in all things? To laugh with, to shelter, and to love, even when the nights are long and the roads uncertain?"
"I do," Ivan says, and it's not loud — but it's bright. Like his whole chest is glowing.
"Then by the vows spoken, and the love shared, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss your partner."
Zander doesn't hesitate.
He pulls Ivan in, tilts him back like something out of an old film, and kisses him so deeply I have to look away just to give them some kind of privacy—even though I'm the only one here.
Then he twirls him. Literally. Like this is the grand finale of a love story and not 3 AM in a frozen chapel with one witness and a bribed priest.
Am I supposed to clap? I'm the only witness.
Well. Screw it.
I clap. Loud and alone. The sound bounces off the cold wooden beams like an awkward guest.
They break apart and glance at me.
Was I not supposed to?
But then they laugh. Together. That same shared, private laughter I've seen a hundred times but never heard up close.
When I met Zander Vale ten years ago, he was just a nineteen-year-old kid.
Skinny. Sharp-eyed. Dressed like money and blood didn't bother him. They called him the devil's errand boy in the hallways—too young, too polished, too quiet.
He walked into that prison like he owned it.
Didn't say his name. Didn't ask for mine.
Just looked at me through the reinforced glass, reading the paper clipped to my file. Murder charge. Twenty years, no chance of parole. Self-defense, but no one cared. I'd do it again, too.
Then he looked up.
"Can you drive?" he asked.
That was it.
No dramatic offer. No handshake. Just that question.
I said yes.
A week later, I was out. Not free, but out. Papers signed, strings pulled, chains traded for keys.
Since then, I've been in the driver's seat of Zander Vale's world—cutting through alleys and cities, across borders and bloodstains.
I was his shadow. His blade when needed. His silence always.
Honestly, I've known him for ten years, but I don't think I ever really knew him. Or maybe everything I thought I understood about him flipped the day that kid showed up.
When did it start?
Was it the first time I saw him smile—really smile? Sitting in the back seat, staring out the window at that beautiful, slippery little thing who fought off three men with nothing but a steel rod and attitude?
After that, he had me drive past that same alley every single day for months. No orders. No explanation. Just a low, "Take the long way," and I knew what route to follow.
Or maybe it was when he left that restaurant, but didn't leave the parking lot for hours—just sitting there in silence, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Or the night he came out of a club, missing his tie. I should've known then. Zander Vale never left a place unfinished, and he never misplaced his goddamn tie.
Ivan melted him.
It's like my boss walked into Zander Vale's life and melted the ice, revealed the man buried underneath all that steel and silence. The human part. The soft part. The part I never thought existed.
They lean in, signing the marriage certificate like it's just another business deal—but their eyes say otherwise. Soft. Sure. Like they've already said their vows long before tonight.
I step up and scrawl my name across the witness line.
Well. That's that. What a bizarre chain of events. I just need a hot bath and a room with a working heater. Preferably one without rose petals or romantic ambiance.
I turn to the chapel doors, ready to disappear into the cold—
"Maksim."
I stop, look back. My boss—no, the boss—Zander, stands with his husband's hand in his, both of them glowing like the snow outside's got nothing on them.
"Thank you," he says.
It's quiet. Sincere.
I grunt in response. Feel heat crawl up the back of my neck, and not from the church candles. Damn it. No need to go soft on me.
I nod and turn again, faster this time. Because if I stay any longer, I might actually start smiling too.
And that's not in the job description.