17. Seventeen #2
I rolled my eyes and stomped past him to the car, where Ivan held the door open.
The drive into the city was silent. I watched Arrow from the corner of my eye, noting how he seemed perfectly at ease, scrolling through his phone, occasionally answering texts with quick, efficient movements of his thumbs.
I wondered what kind of business he was handling, and who was dying today because Arrow Romanov decided they should.
When we arrived at the atelier, a sleek, unmarked building in the heart of Manhattan, Arrow helped me out of the car.
“Remember,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. “Behave.”
I didn’t dignify his reminder with an answer, just lifted my chin and marched through the glass doors like I was heading to my own execution.
Mrs. Montalto descended upon us immediately, her face flushed with excitement.
“Miss Virelli! And Mr. Romanov! Right on time!” Her eyes darted to the collar at my throat, widening slightly before she composed herself.
“I’ve compiled a beautiful array of dresses for you to choose from.
Each one has been specifically designed only for you, Miss Virelli, just like Mr. Romanov requested. ”
I shot him a look. “You had dresses designed for me?”
His eyes found mine. “I had nothing to do with the design process. I just gave them your measurements.”
“And how did you get those?” I demanded.
“I have my ways.”
Mrs. Montalto clapped her hands together, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Let’s get started, shall we? The dressing room is prepared, and I have champagne chilling.”
I followed her through the atelier, past mannequins draped in half-finished couture and workstations where seamstresses bent over intricate beadwork.
The private fitting room was opulent, adorned with creams and golds, with a circular platform surrounded by mirrors and plush gold velvet chairs positioned for spectators.
“Mr. Romanov, would you like to wait here while we get your bride into the first gown?” Mrs. Montalto gestured to one of the chairs.
“I would,” he said, settling himself with the casual authority of a man who expected the world to accommodate him.
His eyes never left mine as I was ushered behind a silk screen.
Two assistants helped me undress, their fingers hovering over the collar with uncertainty.
“Should we . . .” one began.
“Leave it,” I snapped, and they exchanged glances but said nothing more.
The first dress they brought was a strapless Valentino ivory gown with a sweetheart neckline and a skirt like a deadly flower around my feet. The bodice was fitted with intricate beadwork that caught the light and scattered like broken glass.
It was beautiful in the way funeral lilies are beautiful—elegant and cold.
Mrs. Montalto ushered me out from behind the silk screen and onto the circular platform to parade me in front of Arrow, who was now joined by Yuri, sitting in a chair on his right.
Arrow’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight of me in the wedding gown, his gaze trailing from the obsidian collar at my throat down to where the beadwork hugged my curves. The juxtaposition of his collar against the virginal white fabric seemed to please him in some primitive way.
“This one is exquisite,” Mrs. Montalto gushed as the assistants fastened me into it. “This silhouette is classic, but the details are modern. Perfect for a bride who wants to make a statement. Turn,” Mrs. Montalto instructed, her voice breathless with excitement.
I rotated slowly on the platform, feeling Arrow’s gaze burning into my back. When I completed the turn, facing him again, his expression had shifted into something more possessive, more hungry.
“What do you think, Mr. Romanov?” Mrs. Montalto asked, hovering nervously at the edge of the platform. “The beading can be adjusted if you prefer something more elaborate. And we can add a longer train if—”
“I hate it,” I said flatly.
At the same time, Arrow interrupted with, “It’s not right.”
Mrs. Montalto’s face fell. “Oh! Well, we have several other options. Perhaps something less traditional?”
“Bring the next one,” he commanded, not taking his eyes off me.
I was whisked back behind the screen, where the assistants peeled the first dress from my body with trembling fingers.
The second dress was darker—not quite ivory but not quite champagne either.
It had long sleeves of delicate lace that would cover the bruises on my arms, and a high neckline that framed the collar without hiding it.
“This is a Vera Wang,” Mrs. Montalto whispered, her voice reverent as she smoothed the fabric over my hips. “One of her more avant-garde pieces. The silhouette is fitted through the bodice and flares just below the knee. Very dramatic.”
Staring at my reflection, I hardly recognized myself in this expensive shroud. The dress hugged my curves like a lover, the fabric whispering against my skin with every breath. I traced the collar with my fingertips, feeling its weight against my throat.
When they led me back to the platform, Arrow’s expression shifted. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he took me in. Hunger flashed across his face.
“Better,” he said, the single word falling like a stone into still water.
Mrs. Montalto beamed. “The color is stunning against her skin tone, and the cut is absolutely—”
“I don’t want it,” I interrupted, meeting Arrow’s gaze in the mirror. “It’s too restrictive. I can barely breathe.”
His mouth curved into that not-quite-smile. “That’s the point of marriage, isn’t it? Learning to breathe through confinement.”
I clenched my jaw.
Yuri snorted, but Arrow’s expression remained unchanged. “Let’s see the next one,” he ordered.
Smug motherfucker.
By the time I was shown the fifth dress, I was ready to rip the silk from my body and set the entire atelier on fire. Each gown was more exquisite than the last, and each fabric more expensive.
Arrow watched me in each one with the same patient intensity he did everything—always seeing far beyond what was immediately in front of him.
The fifth dress was ivory and lace, the back plunged dangerously low.
My bare skin was covered by an intricate lace pattern that emphasized my spine.
The bodice hugged my curves, with the same lace pattern climbing up my torso and wrapping around my neck like ivy.
The skirt flowed outward like smoke, ethereal, with a glittery hue that caught the light as I moved.
Delicate as spider silk, it felt like it might disintegrate if I breathed too hard.
It was, without question, the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen, and I hated it with every fiber of my being.
Mrs. Montalto circled me, making small adjustments. “This is a masterpiece,” she whispered. “Alexander McQueen created it for your coloring and figure. The way it frames you is divine. Mr. Romanov specifically requested something unexpected.”
Arrow’s reaction was immediate. His pupils dilated, his body tensing forward in the chair as his eyes tracked the curve of my back, lingering when the fabric stopped right above my ass. I watched his throat work as he swallowed, his knuckles whitening where his hands gripped the arm of his chair.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
“This is the one,” he said.
“No.” I glared at him through the mirrors.
“Uhm.” Mrs. Montalto cleared her throat. “Perhaps Miss Virelli would like to try on a few more options? We have several—”
“This is the dress,” Arrow interrupted, standing from his chair and approaching the platform.
He circled me slowly, tracking every detail.
“It’s too revealing,” I argued, though that wasn’t my real objection. My real objection was that he wanted it.
His fingers traced the lace pattern along my exposed spine. “That’s the point.”
“I don’t care what you think. I’m the one who has to wear it.”
“And you will wear it beautifully,” he replied, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my stomach clench. “This is the dress.”
Mrs. Montalto wrung her hands, clearly uncomfortable with our thinly-veiled hostility. “Perhaps Miss Virelli and Mr. Romanov would like a moment alone to discuss?”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Arrow said, his eyes still locked with mine in the mirror. “This is the dress she’ll wear when she becomes my wife.”
I saw red.
The audacity of this man to dictate what I would wear on my body—to parade me around like his personal doll. I stepped off the platform, pushing away from Mrs. Montalto’s fluttering hands.
“You don’t get to decide,” I hissed, moving into Arrow’s space, standing toe-to-toe with the man who towered over me.
His eyes darkened. “I told you to behave.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, stepping backward. “You think you can dress me like a doll? Parade me around in front of your men like a trophy you’ve won?”
“Lower your voice,” he warned, his tone deadly quiet.
The assistants froze, eyes wide, sensing the danger crackling between us.
My laugh was high-pitched and brittle. “Will you punish me? Right here in front of all these nice people?” I gestured wildly at the room. “Go ahead. Show them what kind of monster you really are.”
Arrow moved so fast I barely registered it. His hand wrapped around my upper arm, grip like steel, as he leaned in close. “Don’t test me, malen’kaya gadyuka,”* he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Not here.”
I tried to wrench away, but he held firm. “Let go of me.”
“Are you done with your tantrum?” His voice was calm and reasonable, which only infuriated me more.
“I’m not wearing this dress.”
His eyes hardened. “Yes, you are.”
“I’d rather walk down the aisle naked.”
Something dangerous flickered across his face. “That can be arranged too.”
Mrs. Montalto’s nervous laughter cut through the tension. “We should take final measurements while you two discuss. Yuri, would you like some champagne while we wait?”
Arrow didn’t break eye contact with me. “Leave us.”
The room cleared instantly. Mrs. Montalto and her assistants scurried away like mice fleeing a predator. Yuri lingered at the door before Arrow dismissed him with a slight nod.