Chapter Seven
In which we all ask, “What the hell just happened?”
Iris…
How the hell did I get here?
Andrey bailed me out almost instantly and the fawning officer promised him the charges would disappear from my record. There won't be a record, actually. I'll be squeaky clean.
I'm hiding in the bathroom, freshly showered, in a suite at the recently rebuilt Lyric Hotel, one of the Morozov properties, staring at the dress hung on a hook by the door.
It's pretty, a simple white silk with no embellishments, it’s knee length.
Horrifyingly, I can tell it's going to be a perfect fit.
When did he get this dress? How did it materialize on the door here in this bougie suite? It's been less than three hours since I was taken to jail.
Pulling out the blow-dryer, I work on my giant mess of hair, looking at my shell-shocked self in the mirror.
I agreed. Of course, I agreed to that supermodel-son-of-a-bitch-selfish-soulless-asshole's demands.
He had the power to keep me in that jail for a long time, or get me moved somewhere else, maybe where Roman and Violet couldn't find me.
Shuddering, I remember his absolute certainty in that vile little room. He would really do that.
Simple makeup. I'm not getting glammed up for this travesty. I'll walk through it, do what he wants and then the first second I can, I'm calling Violet and Roman.
Roman might shoot Andrey, I think happily. If he doesn't, Violet will.
"Just get through the rest of this night." I tell my reflection as I pull the dress on, contorting my arms to get the zipper up in back. "I am going to fuck up this man's life in ways he could not have imagined."
There's my first real smile of the night.
The brisk knock on the door makes me jump. "We're running short on time." Andrey sounds chilly and mildly impatient, like we're late for a dinner reservation. "Are you dressed?"
I really want to shout, "No!" But he's the kind of bastard who'd just come in anyway. Clearing my still-sore throat, I say, "Yes." The door opens instantly and he looks me over. It's like he's categorizing if I look appropriate. It's not intended to be flattering.
Verdict: acceptable.
His gaze moves to my neck. "How much does it hurt? I can call for a doctor after the ceremony."
"It's fine. You had the medic check me when I was getting released, remember?" I should sound angrier, right? Blazingly furious. My tone is bleak, and there's a ringing in my ears.
Andrey steps behind me and his fingers go to the zipper. He pulls it the rest of the way up, fastening the little hook and eye at the top. He does it in a pincer-like grasp, so as to avoid actually touching anything other than the pull tab.
His eyes meet mine in the giant mirror. The elegant old sconces in the bathroom give a flattering glow to everything except for him. My about-to-be husband (oh, god!) just looks as cold and remote as he always does.
Scooting sideways, I step away from him, heading for the door. "Let's get this over with."
Checking Andrey's watch, I'm stunned to see it's 2 AM.
Who the hell did he dig up at this hour to marry us?
His driver pulls up to the New York City Courthouse and there's a bright-eyed girl in a dowdy blue suit waiting at a side door.
They should really be paying her more if she has to stay up like this.
"Welcome, Mr. Morozov, Miss Monroe," she smiles cheerfully, carefully not looking at Andrey.
My smile is weak in return, which she pretends not to notice as she guides us through the silent marble and wood-trimmed hall.
The lights are dimmed, and I can hear the low hum of a floor polisher as the night maintenance team goes about their business.
Every step I take feels heavier than the last.
"Andrey! How are you?" The woman who greets us is a surprise. She's in her late sixties, silver hair and wearing a judge's robe.
"I'm well, Tamara, and you?" Andrey leans down at a perfect angle and almost touches his lips to her cheek in an imitation of warmth, before quickly righting himself. That has to be the most impersonal greeting I've ever witnessed for someone who is clearly a friend.
If he has friends.
"And this is your beautiful bride, Iris." The judge smiles at me approvingly as if I'd accomplished something more significant than just standing here. Her smile is so genuine. I wish I could throw myself into her arms, wailing, but I suspect it wouldn't make any difference.
"Iris, allow me to introduce Her Honor Tamara Martinez." He gestures gracefully between us, like this is all so very civilized.
"I'm very fond of your groom,” she says.
“He took down a child trafficking ring that even the NYPD Sex Crimes Division couldn't." She leads us into her chambers.
"So many rich bastards were involved, you see.
I'm a Family Court judge, but I was very happy to work with him in getting the children settled safely. "
Casting a side glance at the blond giant beside me, I wrinkle my brow. This heartless prick rescued child victims?
"There's always more work to be done," Andrey says dismissively. "But watching the traffickers sentenced to life in prison was deeply satisfying, was it not?"
"Always," Tamara beams. "Now then! You two.
I understand this is urgent, and while impetuous is never a word I use when referring to Andrey, here we are.
" She nods to her assistant, who hurries up with a bouquet.
It's beautiful, pale purple irises and blush roses.
The roses send a swell through my chest and I have to suck in a deep breath, trying not to cry.
I may not have had any specific dreams for my wedding, no Pinterest boards or anything, but I never could have imagined a ceremony where Rose wasn't standing right next to me, with Violet weeping happily into a handkerchief.
"Oh, thank you," I manage. "They're beautiful, that's so kind of you."
"Well, Andrey said he was busy," she beams. "But he told my assistant what you'd like."
Yeah, he was busy bailing me out of jail on attempted murder charges, I think. Though it doesn't seem wise to say that out loud. Still, seeing the flowers in my favorite colors is making my heart unclench. Just a little.
"Well, if you'd take your places in front of me," Tamara claps her hands briskly, "we can get started."
Andrey takes my hand and pulls me closer as she arranges her judge's robes. His hand is cool, and dry.
"We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Andrey Yuri Morozov and Iris Petunia Monroe in matrimony."
Andrey's lips quirk slightly. "Your mother did have a theme, didn't she?" he murmurs.
"Rose's middle name is Gladiola," I whisper back.
There is a quick chuckle before our judge composes herself. "Marriage is a serious and honorable commitment, entered into not lightly, but thoughtfully and with mutual respect…"
The words start fading in and out like a bad phone connection as I stare at the pretty enameled brooch on Tamara's judicial robe. Did someone who loved her give it to her? Her mom, maybe? Our mother never gave Rose and me anything but an attempt to force us into a hellish future.
Don't you cry! I angrily lecture myself. He doesn't get your tears.
My brain snaps back into awareness when the assistant tactfully takes my bouquet and I'm facing Andrey.
"Andrey, do you take Iris to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish her from this day forward?"
Why does Tamara look so happy? Can't she see what bullshit this is?
"I do." Andrey's deep voice is clear and certain.
"And Iris, do you take Andrey to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish him from this day forward?"
My Catholic school roots come surging back and I'm waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike me dead. "I… Do." My voice is creaky.
He gracefully slips a ring on my finger. The diamond is very large with a square cut. It's very pretty, elegant, actually. He hands me a plain black band. It takes my shaking hand three tries before I get the damn thing on his finger.
"Andrey and Iris, having exchanged vows and rings before this witness -" Her assistant smiles and gives me a little wave. She looks so happy, why is she happy? "And by the authority vested in me by the laws of the state of New York, I now pronounce you legally married."
Then, the words I'm dreading.
"You may now kiss the bride."
This man is gigantic. He leans way down, tilting my head up with a finger under my chin.
I can smell him, standing so close, expensive aftershave, cold and crisp like how snow would feel.
Something underneath. Gunpowder? Whiskey and gunpowder and violence.
His cool lips slide over mine in a chaste, impersonal kiss and he straightens up again.
"Now, you're mine," he whispers.
Tamara claps happily, and I see a flash out of the corner of my eye. I didn't notice the photographer when we first came in. He rapidly takes a couple dozen pictures. Of that non-kiss. Of us signing the marriage license, then with Judge Tamara standing between us.
Finally, finally, Andrey says, "I must take my bride home."
Tamara's gaze lands on me, suddenly sharp. "Yes, Iris looks exhausted. It may be a happy day, but most likely overwhelming, eh?"
"Oh, you have no idea," I blurt.
Andrey pulls me toward the door before I can say anything else.
Back in his Mercedes-Benz G-Class, I stare at the wedding ring on my hand. The weight of it is alien.
"I'm not sleeping with you." That comes out a bit more abrupt than I'd intended.
He's checking his phone, rapidly sending out text after text. "That is the least of my concerns."
We pull up to a tall, black, monolithic high-rise, the moon glints off it weakly, less like a reflection and more like the building is a black hole, sucking any light from the sky.
"Of course," I murmur to myself.
"What?" Andrey actually lifts his gaze from his phone to look at me.
"Of course, your place would look like Sauron's Dark Tower in Lord of the Rings."
Something flashes over his stupidly handsome face and is instantly gone again. Was that… a smile?
I was at his twin brother Nikandr's penthouse once for his wedding to Caroline and it seems they have similar tastes.
The elevator opens into a circular entry, polished black granite and charcoal grey walls.
There's a huge floral arrangement on the (of course) black table there.
The flowers look like they're cringing at all the stern, unyielding decor around them.
I'm suddenly so tired, and he notices. "Come with me."
Walking up the staircase gives me vertigo, his living room is curved, like the side of the building and the view from the three-story windows spreads out aggressively, the sea of lights from buildings all over the city, and the dark water of the Hudson River.
It feels a little like I'm falling through the air and I turn away.
"I had the largest guest room prepared for you," he says, leading me to a door on the left. "But should you prefer another room after you've been shown around tomorrow, you're welcome to change. Never," his tone drops to polar levels, "never enter my study."
"Why? Do you have the corpses of former wives hung there by their hair?"
Shit. That just popped out.
Expressionless, he opens the door. It's an enormous room.
Roman bought Rose and me a spectacular apartment next to campus, but it looks like a student hostel compared to this.
More dark walls, forest green this time.
White crown molding and another tall set of windows.
All I can focus on is the huge bed, so tall that I might have to take a running start to get on top of it.
There's a tray on the bedside table with some small sandwiches and a huge array of desserts.
"Do you just 'poof' things into existence?" I ask.
"What do you mean?" His attention is back on his phone.
"It's been… what? Four hours since you walked into the county jail and forced me to marry you. So, the dress? Digging up a judge willing to marry us at 2 AM? A photographer and bouquet? Snacks?"
"I believe in expediency," he says. "Goodnight."
As soon as the door closes, I pull a footstool over to help me climb onto the bed and sit there, black mascara tears splashing onto the white silk of my dress.
I cry because I miss Rose so much. Because I don't know how my entire life could be plunged into this nightmare.
My cut was treated on my cheekbone, but it's still throbbing and my throat's sore, so when I'm out of tears, I curl up on my side and fall asleep.