5. Vasilisa
Chapter 5
Vasilisa
I wake up to my blanket being ripped off me, followed by the sharp clatter of blinds being yanked open. Sunlight floods my room, merciless and unforgiving.
With a groan, I bury my face into my pillow, clinging to the last remnants of sleep.
It doesn’t last.
A firm grip wraps around my ankle, pulling.
“Mom, I’m tired.” My voice is muffled as I grumble into the mattress, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
My mother stands over me, unimpressed, arms crossed as she watches my pathetic attempt at resistance.
“You need to be up and ready,” she says, her tone clipped. “There’s no time for lounging. We have shopping to do, dresses to look at. Your future husband has made many arrangements.”
My stomach twists.
The reminder of my impending wedding settles like a weight against my ribs.
Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed, already dreading the day ahead.
But my mother doesn’t just expect obedience. She expects perfection.
She lingers, eyes sharp as I get ready, ensuring that every detail of my appearance is flawless. The way my hair falls. The precision of my concealer. The way my posture holds.
Her gaze follows me as I reach for a skirt and sweater from my closet.
I don’t even get the chance to slip them on before her hand clamps around my wrist, stopping me.
I meet her stare—eyes that mirror mine but colder, harsher, more unyielding.
I expected pushback from my mother.
No matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough for Vera Popov.
She wants a daughter like her—poised, elegant, dutiful without question or emotion.
To her, I am too much.
Too emotional. Too inquisitive. Too bright .
‘Men don’t like women with their noses in books.’
One of many mantras from Vera Popov.
And yet, I’ve never been able to stop myself from reaching for more than what she’s willing to give.
My sister, on the other hand, is setting herself up to be unpredictable. My mother will have a much harder time taming her.
I pull my arm away with a sigh.
“You cannot wear that,” she spits, disgust dripping from her tone.
I lift a brow. “And what would you have me wear, Mother ?”
“Anything but those awful, matronly atrocities you claim to be clothes.” She waves a dismissive hand toward my closet. “You look like a librarian.”
A flicker of amusement tugs at my lips.
She ignores me.
“The only thing I can appreciate in your wardrobe are your heels. The higher, the better—especially given your height.” Her eyes trail over me, assessing, judging.
I already know what’s coming before she even turns toward my closet.
She rummages through it like it belongs to her, fingers brushing past my sweaters, my skirts, my carefully chosen pieces, before she reaches the back.
The hidden section.
The place where I shoved all the dresses she bought me, hoping she’d forget.
I cringe internally, bracing myself as she lets out a triumphant squeal.
“This one!” She pulls a blue silk dress from the hanger, clutching it like a prize.
I hate that dress.
“Put this on. It’s perfect.” Her smile is almost loving. “All the shops we’re visiting today know who you’re engaged to. We need to be sure you look the part—lest they say something to Mr. Amato.”
The way she says his name sends a cold shiver down my spine.
I don’t argue. It’s pointless.
Instead, I slip into the delicate silk, the fabric clinging tightly to my frame, molding to me in ways that feel too revealing, too deliberate.
A glance in the mirror and I barely recognize myself.
Gone is the girl who cried herself to sleep just hours ago.
Today, I am Vasilisa Popov—poised, primed, and ready to fulfill my duty.
A favor to my family. A transaction to strengthen an alliance.
Today, I play the role I was born into.
Behind me, my mother watches through the mirror, pride gleaming in her reflection.
I force myself to turn, tugging in vain at the hem of the dress, trying to lengthen it. “When is the wedding? Can’t we take our time?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I push further. “I have class later. I don’t have much time for shopping.”
She clears her throat gently before hurling the bomb.
“In two weeks. Mr. Amato has requested not to meet before then… As for class, I’ve sent in a deferment so you can focus on being a wife.”
My head snaps to her so fast my vision blurs.
“What?” The word barely scrapes past my throat.
A deferment.
The word alone sends a jolt of fear down my spine. My stomach twists violently.
That was mine . My future. The one thing I had control over. And now, it’s slipping away like everything else.
“For how long?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but the demand in it is undeniable.
I clutch the fabric of the dress tighter, as if physically holding onto something will keep the rest from slipping through my fingers.
“You can’t—what about finals? My degree? I’m not ready to get married, I—”
The words choke out of me, sharp and frantic, as my mother’s earlier statement settles deep in my bones.
Two weeks.
An icy shiver spreads through me, curling around my spine, sinking into my gut.
This isn’t how I imagined my future.
Not like this.
Not hastily thrown into a marriage with a stranger. Not being forced to put my education— my dreams —on pause.
What if he won’t let me go back?
The panic surges higher, clawing at my throat, at my lungs. I take sharp, shallow breaths, trying to steady myself, but my mother’s gaze pins me in place. Expecting compliance. Expecting obedience.
On the surface, I force calm. But inside—inside, a storm rages.
Fear.
Uncertainty.
And something dangerous.
Something that tastes like rebellion.
“I need time.” My voice trembles despite my best efforts. “Time to prepare myself.”
My mother’s expression hardens in an instant. Cold. Unyielding.
“This isn’t about readiness, Vasilisa.”
Her tone is sharp, final, slicing through any argument before I can form one.
“This is about loyalty. You will marry him. And in doing so, you will secure our family’s future. There is nothing more important than that.”
The words press hard against my chest, suffocating the refusal burning on my tongue.
I want to tell her no. That I won’t do this.
But I swallow it down.
Tears blur my vision. I feel them spill, hot and heavy, as realization slams into me.
There is no way out.
I am a pawn.
A sacrifice.
Another transaction in the name of the Bratva.
“But, Mama, please—I can’t—” My breath shudders, coming in short, erratic bursts.
“You can, and you will , Vasilisa!”
The room tilts.
My vision narrows.
A ringing takes over my ears, drowning out everything—my mother’s voice, the walls closing in, the crushing weight of expectation.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Soft hands grip my shoulders. I barely register the touch, the quiet voice cutting through the suffocating haze.
Mimi.
She’s holding me as I crumble, as my knees hit the floor, as the fabric of the dress chokes the air from my lungs.
She strokes my hair, whispering to me.
Her voice reaches me in fragments. Echoes of calm, of comfort, but they’re distant.
“You’re okay. You can do this.”
Mimi’s voice is soft, steady—a lifeline in the middle of the storm. I blink up at her sweet, concerned face and force myself to take a breath, mimicking the rise and fall of her own.
My mother huffs, throwing her hands in the air. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters, turning on her heel. “You have ten minutes.”
The door slams behind her.
Mimi wipes away the last of my tears, grounding me back into the harsh reality I have to face.
“Let’s fix your makeup,” she says gently, guiding me toward my vanity.
I nod, following without protest.
My reflection stares back at me—red-rimmed eyes, shaky breaths, the ghost of panic still lingering behind my carefully reconstructed mask. Mimi dabs on blush, sets everything in place with a dusting of powder, but the weight pressing down on my chest doesn’t fully lift.
I don’t want to move.
I don’t want to leave this room .
Mimi’s voice cuts through the silence, unexpected but thoughtful.
“You know,” she says, putting the brush away and moving toward my bed, “you’re the one who gave me hope for getting married. Even an arranged marriage.”
I blink. “What?”
She ignores my confusion, crawling under my bed and pulling out a small shoebox. She dusts it off with the sleeve of her sweater before settling onto the floor, lifting the lid with careful fingers.
Curious, I abandon my vanity and sit beside her, peering inside.
The box is filled with torn pages—fragments of old romance novels, stories I used to collect like stolen treasures. Love, passion, stolen kisses, and sword fights in the name of honor.
Mimi plucks out a worn scrap of paper, smoothing it out between her fingers before reading aloud.
“He was a stranger that became the beginning and end of my world, his touch bringing forth the brightest of gold from my once cold heart.”
She sighs dreamily, then giggles, handing me the faded excerpt.
I take it, tracing the jagged edges, the ink smudged from years of handling. The paper feels fragile in my hands—just like the hope it once held.
I had forgotten about this. About how much I loved the idea of love blossoming from nothing but stolen glances, subtle touches, a desire stronger than thirst in the desert.
Mimi nudges me lightly. “He could be that for you.”
Santo Amato.
The thought lingers.
He could be the man who changes everything. Who turns the impossible into something golden .
Or…
He could be nothing more than another name in a long line of expectations.
I tuck the box away, letting the thought settle—not rejecting it, but not embracing it either.
Not yet.
But just for now… I let it exist .
***
The luxurious bridal boutique is dripping in opulence—gold-trimmed mirrors, chandeliers casting a warm glow, silk curtains cascading over pristine white walls.
And then there’s her.
Cassandra.
A stunning stylist, handpicked by my soon-to-be husband.
Her chestnut hair cascades in soft waves down her back, and her moss-green eyes glimmer under the boutique’s golden light. The dress she wears—skin-tight, perfectly tailored—hugs every inch of her curvaceous frame, exuding confidence.
I shift uncomfortably, feeling plain in comparison.
My mother sits beside her, laughing— laughing —like they’ve been friends for years.
Cassandra’s boisterous laughter rings through the boutique, bouncing off the walls, effortless and bright.
I sink further into my chair beside Mimi, out of place, uncomfortable, resisting the urge to fidget under the weight of it all.
Across the room, Pietro leans casually against the wall beside my mother’s guard. He catches my eye, winking mischievously like this is all some kind of inside joke.
I almost smile. Almost.
With a deep breath, I force myself up, joining my mother and Cassandra as she launches into a monologue about how she’s styled Santo for years.
“He’s a delight to style,” she says, voice lilting with familiarity.
I try to picture it—Santo Amato standing in front of a mirror, allowing this woman to adjust his tie, smooth out his suit jacket.
I can’t.
Because I don’t know him .
Not really.
Cassandra’s eyes land on me, her smile warm, genuine.
“I’m very excited to extend my business toward his soon-to-be wife.”
Something bubbles up inside me at the words.
Something I can’t name.
Because she knows him.
Really knows him.
And I don’t.
Not yet.
Cassandra leads me into a spacious dressing room, where an entire rack of pristine white gowns waits for me. The air is thick with the faint scent of expensive fabric, roses, and something else—something unplaceable.
The door clicks shut behind us.
I glance over my shoulder just as Cassandra glides pass me.
“You’re going to try these on with me,” she says, voice smooth as silk.
I blink, taken aback. “In here? With you?”
She tilts her head, smiling. “Of course. Full service. Just the way Mr. Amato prefers.”
Something in the way she says his name unsettles me, but I nod, swallowing my hesitation.
Cassandra gestures at me, her manicured fingers poised midair. “Over or down?”
I frown. “What?”
“Your dress,” she clarifies, tapping the thin strap on my shoulder. “Does it come off over your head or down?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Down.”
Before I can even react, her fingers slide under the straps, guiding them down with practiced ease.
The silk pools at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but blue lace panties and heels.
My arms snap across my chest instinctively.
Cassandra smirks. “Step out.”
Her tone is confident, commanding—like she’s done this a hundred times before.
Like she’s undressed women for Santo before.
I step out of the dress, my skin burning under her assessing gaze.
She folds the fabric neatly, setting it aside on the bench before turning back to me with an easy smile.
“No need to be shy, Vasilisa.” Her tone is laced with something I can’t name. “We’ll be working closely together to perfect your entire wardrobe. This is just the beginning. Since Santo and I have been working together for years, it only makes sense that I would handle his wife as well.”
The words linger in the air.
Heavy.
Unspoken meanings hanging between us.
I force myself to meet her gaze, my arms still locked tightly around myself.
Because for the first time, I wonder—just how well does Cassandra know him?
Cassandra grabs a gown, unzipping it with ease before bending slightly so I can step in.
The fabric whispers against my skin as she pulls it up, my arms falling uselessly to my sides.
The dress is stunning.
Strapless, the lace bodice shimmers under the golden light, intricate embroidery catching in the mirror. The tulle skirt flares out from my hips, cascading in soft waves to the floor.
As Cassandra zips me in, my gaze flickers to the mirror.
And for a moment—just a moment—I hesitate.
Because I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
She looks ready.
I do not.
Then—
Click.
The sound is quiet, but unmistakable.
My head snaps toward Cassandra just as she lowers her phone.
She doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Photos for Santo,” she says smoothly, fingers dancing across the screen. “He’ll want to see you in the dress, even if he pretends he doesn’t.”
Her words settle in my chest like a stone.
I don’t know him.
But already, he’s seeing me before I ever see him.
Cassandra tucks the phone between her breasts and gestures for me to follow. Her voice washes over me in an effortless stream of dress specifications—details I barely register as we step out of the dressing room.
Mimi and my mother are waiting.
I step onto the podium, my heart hammering in my chest as their eyes land on me.
Mimi’s smile bursts across her face. “You look gorgeous!” she exclaims, eyes shining with admiration.
Relief flutters through me, but I turn to my mother hesitantly.
“Mama? What do you think?”
She scrutinizes me for a long second before offering an approving smile. “It’s beautiful.”
Relief floods through me.
Then, I shift slightly—just enough to meet Pietro’s gaze.
His mouth is slightly ajar, his eyes dragging over me as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then clears his throat and gives me a sharp, almost forced nod.
Cassandra has been watching the exchange silently.
But I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to Pietro. How her expression sharpens—just slightly—before she turns back to me, her smile never faltering.
“Ready for dress number two?” she asks brightly.
I nod, stepping off the podium.
She leads me back to the dressing room, closing the door behind us.
I barely have time to brace myself before she’s unzipping the gown.
The dress falls before I can cover myself.
I suck in a breath, suddenly hyperaware of my exposed skin.
Cassandra doesn’t seem to notice—or care.
She keeps her eyes locked on mine through the mirror as she gathers the dress.
Then—casually, almost too casually—she asks, “Who is that boy out there? The one with the pale hair?”
I blink, confused. “Pietro?”
“Yes, him.”
Cassandra’s eyes narrow slightly, her expression shifting—sharp, accusatory.
“Who is he to you?”
I blink at her tone, caught off guard.
“My sister’s guard.” The words feel stiff, unnatural under the weight of her stare. “He used to be mine… my guard, I mean.”
A quiet hum slips from Cassandra’s lips as she watches me in the mirror, considering my words carefully.
“Were you two ever together?”
I shake my head. “No. Never. We’re just friends.”
Her lips press into a thin line, unimpressed. “The way he looked at you says otherwise.”
A flicker of unease crawls down my spine.
“Does Santo have concerns about him?” she asks, her voice deceptively light.
I hesitate.
Not because I have something to hide—but because I don’t know how much to say.
“No… I don’t think so.”
Cassandra scoffs, the sound dismissive, disbelieving.
“I find it hard to believe Santo didn’t ask about your guard.” She studies me through the mirror, eyes sharp. “Has he met him?”
“ We haven’t even met yet.”
The words slip out quieter than I mean them to, but she hears them anyway.
Surprise flickers in her gaze. “You haven’t met Santo?”
I shake my head. “It’s an arranged marriage.”
For the first time, her perfectly poised demeanor cracks. Her jaw drops slightly, lips parting in disbelief before she lets out a laugh—dry, knowing.
”An arranged marriage?” She shakes her head, amusement dancing across her features. “That makes sense now.”
The words sink deep, twisting something inside me.
A wave of shame and confusion washes over me, tightening around my ribs.
Why does that make sense?
I need to know.
Cassandra notices my expression, but doesn’t soften. Instead, she kneels slightly so I can step into the next gown, her movements measured, intentional
“How does that make sense?” I ask, my voice laced with something dangerously close to anger.
She doesn’t answer right away.
I struggle to keep my composure as she pulls the dress up, slipping my arms through the delicate lace sleeves. The fabric feels heavier than before, pressing down on me in ways it shouldn’t.
Cassandra steps behind me, fingers working deliberately as she fastens the buttons.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
And I see it.
The pity.
The quiet, almost apologetic glance before she delivers the final blow.
“He tends to go for a… fuller figure.”
Her voice is light, almost thoughtful, but it cuts deep.
“You’re not his usual type.”
I Shatter.
Any lingering hope I didn’t even know I had— gone .