Chapter Two #3
“Can you guess?”
“Knowing your brother… not well.” She says, breaking a piece of croissant off and plopping it in her mouth.
“Okay, so Luka's got a plan. What does that mean for you?"
"He told me to pack my bags," I say, wrapping my hand around the coffee cup and bringing it to my lips.
"Pack your bags and go where?"
"I don't know. I’m sure if he had an underground bunker, it would be there."
"Kat—"
"I’m kidding, but I really don’t know.” I press my hands to my face, exhausted. "He said he'd call me this morning with details, but he hasn't yet, and I'm—"
My phone buzzes.
We both stare at it.
I pick it up slowly.
Luka: You'll need a wedding dress. Something off the rack you can get today. You're flying to Seattle tomorrow.
I read the message three times, my brain refusing to process the words.
"What?" Irina leans over, reading the screen. Her jaw drops. "A wedding dress? Is he serious?"
I type back with shaking hands.
Me: What are you talking about?
Luka: Trust me. I'll explain everything when you get here. Just buy the dress and pack your things. I'm sending a car to pick you up tomorrow at noon. I’m sending two bodyguards and flying you private. I don’t trust Dad’s reach.
My brother makes enough. His NHL yearly contract guarantee is one of the biggest in Rookie history, but still, this is crazy. I don’t need bodyguards or a private aircraft.
Me: Luka, you're not serious.
Luka: Your safety is my number one priority. I don’t take that lightly.
Me: At least tell me what the wedding dress is for.
Luka: You said you'd do anything. The optics will look bad if they try to marry you off to Maxim when you’re already married to someone else. Grandma won’t let Dad do it. Scottie Easton is our best choice, and Dad doesn’t have the reach to the theater circuit in Seattle.
I stare at the screen, my heart pounding.
Irina's watching me, wide-eyed. "Kat. What's going on?"
"I think…" I swallow hard. "I think my brother's lost his mind."
Two hours later, we're standing in a bridal boutique in SoHo.
Irina's flipping through racks of dresses, muttering under her breath about "unhinged hockey players" and "terrible life choices," while I stand frozen in the middle of the store, feeling like I've stepped into someone else's life.
I’ve dreamed of the day I’d get to go wedding dress shopping, but stupidly, I thought I'd get to marry someone I love… I thought my grandmother would be here to help me pick out the dress. She might be the family matriarch, allowing my father to do this, but I know I’m still her favorite of my cousins. Even between Luka and me.
"I can’t believe I’m buying a wedding dress,” I whisper.
"You've said that at least twenty times in the last hour," Irina replies, holding up a lace gown. "What about this one? We don’t have all day. We need to get you back to pack, and I have a show tonight.”
"I don't even know who I'm supposedly marrying."
"Good point." She pulls out her phone. "What's your brother's team called? The Seattle… Hawks?"
"Hawkeyes."
"Right." She's already typing, her eyes scanning the screen. "Scottie Easton was the name he texted you, right?"
"Yes."
She starts scrolling and then pauses. "Oh damn…”
"What?" I say, flipping past dress after dress, completely numb, not even looking at them.
"Well, he's gorgeous." She turns the phone toward me, and I glance at the screen.
It's a photo from some charity event—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit, grinning at the camera like he doesn't have a care in the world. Sandy brown hair, warm hazel eyes, the kind of smile that probably gets him out of trouble on a regular basis.
He looks… easy. Uncomplicated. Like the kind of person who's never had to worry about anything more serious than what to eat for breakfast.
"Big muscles, tiny brain," I mutter, stuffing any level of sexual interest down deep in the pits of my soul. "Typical hockey player."
Irina snorts. "You haven't even met him."
"I don't need to. I've met plenty of athletes. They're all the same."
"Your brother's an athlete,” she offers.
"Luka's different."
"Uh-huh." She's scrolling again, pulling up more photos—shirtless gym selfies, candid shots from games, pictures of him laughing with his teammates. Damn, she’s right… he is gorgeous in that hockey player kind of way—like he’s broken his nose so many times it’s permanently crooked, probably only half of his front teeth are real, and could lift a car off a trapped child if someone yelled loud enough, kind of way.
"Okay, but seriously. If this is the guy, you could do worse."
I don't respond.
Looks aren’t the only thing that matters.
Sure… if we were talking about a date to scare off my father, then yes, Scottie is nice to look at, but we’re not.
We’re talking about marrying him. Signing legal documents.
Possibly getting into trouble with immigration if I can’t get a company in Seattle to sponsor my visa—which could turn into deportation and jail time and my father saying I told you so for the rest of my natural life.
We’re talking about changing my entire life.
Changing my last name… Oh God.
Do I have to change my last name?
Will he expect a physical marriage too? Like sex?
Do I tell him that I’m still a virgin?
He’s a horny hockey player. Of course, he’s going to expect sex in a marriage.
The idea makes my hands sweat.
It’s not that I intended to be a twenty-two-year-old virgin; it just happened that way.
In Russia, no boy in school would have ever touched me.
My father would have had him disappear, and besides, he sent me to an all-girls school until I was fourteen.
Then he let me move to New York to study where my mother went to school, to Juilliard.
And yes, college and the ballet company is a pool of horny artists all sharing each other.
But I’ve been too scared to let down my guard, letting anyone find out who I am…
who my father is. Kidnapping is a real thing, and I’ve been too busy for relationships.
The life of a dancer isn’t exactly filled with time for fooling around. The competition is thick, expectations are high, and if you aren’t trying out for every audition, every callback, practically every hour you are awake, forget breaking into a role.
I worked my ass off to get where I was with the New York company, and it paid off, but romantic relationships were not a part of that.
There are so many ways this could all go wrong. I can’t even count them.
An hour later, I'm standing in front of a mirror, wearing an ivory dress with delicate lace sleeves and a fitted bodice that flares into a soft, flowing skirt.
A gown that the saleswoman pulled for me as one of the few samples they can sell off the rack.
It's beautiful.
It's also completely surreal.
"This is actually happening," I whisper.
Irina stands beside me, her reflection serious. "Are you sure about this?"
I think about my father's cold voice. About Maxim Volkov.
About the life I've built here, the one I'm not ready to give up. I’m so close to breaking out big in the ballet world. Something my mom gave up to move to Russia to marry my father because she fell in love. I can’t let him clip my wings like he did hers.
A text comes through, and I check it quickly.
Unknown Number: Your father told me that he informed you of our family's alliance. I’ve always thought fondly of you. I would have proposed properly if your father had let me come instead. I look forward to our future. ––Maxim
I add his number to my phone so I won’t get blindsided again by his texts.
"No," I admit. "But I don't have another choice. I’m getting married one way or another. To Scottie or to Maxim. Only one buys my freedom."
She nods slowly. "Then let's buy the dress."
That night, I sit in my apartment, surrounded by half-packed suitcases, staring at the garment bag hanging on my closet door.
My phone buzzes again.
Luka: The plane lands at noon. Be ready.
Me: I still don't understand what's happening.
Luka: The marriage is temporary. Just long enough for us to find a Company to renew your visa and to make grandma believe that you’re married and can’t be married again.
I set the phone down and lean back against the couch, my mind racing.
Tomorrow, I'm getting on a plane to Seattle.
Tomorrow, I'm moving across the country to get married.
To a stranger.
To a hockey player I've never met.
I close my eyes and think of my mother, of the way she used to smile when she told me I could be anything.
"I hope you're right, mama.”