Chapter 21
NIKOLAI’S MOTHER
The red dress hung in my closet, haunting me with a promise of pain and humiliation.
I stared at it for longer than I should, hoping to find a way not to have to wear it tonight. My hands trembled as I reached out to touch the silk fabric.
Twenty-three years of wearing this color. Twenty-three years of being displayed like a prize, offered like a commodity to men who looked at me with hunger while my husband watched with cold calculation.
Red meant available.
Red meant for sale.
Red meant I belonged to whoever Vladimir decided could further his ambitions.
“Mama?”
I turned to find Anya in the doorway, her figure already showing the first signs of the woman she’d soon become.
At twelve, she was caught between childhood and something I’d desperately wanted to protect her from.
She had that same wariness in her eyes that I saw in my own reflection.
The first sign of resilience being broken into pieces to make way for obedience only.
It was a burden that came from living in this house, with this man.
“Come here, moya lyubov.” My love. I held out my hand, and Anya crossed the room to take it, settling beside me on the edge of the bed.
She noticed the dress immediately. Those pale blue eyes of hers, so like her father’s, but softer, were fixed on it with awareness. Tears started to brim behind her lashes, but my brave little girl held them back for my sake.
“Is it the ball tonight?” She asked quietly.
“Yes, dochka.” Daughter. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, trying to soothe those demons, even though I knew I never could. “Tonight is the Krasni Ball.” Red.
“Why do you always wear red, Mama? You hate red.”
Smart girl. I’d tried so hard to hide it from her and Nikolai. But they saw everything. Understood more than I wanted them to.
“Do you know what the Krasni Ball is, Anya?”
She shook her head, but I could see the lie in her eyes. She’d heard things. Seen things. Girls her age always did in houses like ours, even if their mothers tried to protect them from the harshness of our reality.
“It’s a tradition. A very old tradition. Powerful people come from all over Russia. And there’s a custom where those who are… available… wear red ribbons on their wrists.”
“Available? Like for dancing?”
“Yes.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. “Like for dancing.”
But Anya was too clever, and she heard the words I didn’t need to say. “But you don’t like dancing with those men. I’ve seen you after the balls. You cry.”
My throat tightened, and my heart squeezed in my chest. How many times had she heard me through these walls? How many times had Nikolai?
“Anya, I need you to listen to me very carefully.” I turned her to face me, cupping her face in my hands. “I need you to promise me something.”
“What, Mama?”
“Never wear red. Do you understand? Not to parties, not to dinners, never. Especially not to balls.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “But it’s just a color.”
“No, moya lyubov. It’s not just a color. Not in this house. Not in this world.” I pulled her closer, my voice dropping to barely a whisper. “When a woman wears red at these balls, it means she’s available. Not just for dancing. For… anything. Whatever her husband decides to trade her for.”
I watched as understanding dawned in her eyes, followed quickly by horror as they widened with realization.
“Papa makes you–”
“Shh.” I pressed my finger to her lips. “Don’t say it out loud. Don’t ever say it out loud. But yes. Your father makes me wear that dress. He makes me dance with his business partners, his allies, anyone who can give him something he wants. And sometimes…”
I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t tell my twelve-year-old daughter that sometimes those men took me upstairs, to rooms prepared for that purpose. That her father sat in his chair, drinking his vodka, watching as his investment paid dividends. As they raped me in turns as many times as they desired.
That I’d stopped being a person years ago, and became currency, instead. That whatever life I still had in me was for the sake of my children only.
“That’s why you cry,” Anya whispered.
“That’s why I cry.” I smoothed her hair back, trying to keep my voice steady. “And that’s why you must never, ever wear red. Promise me, Anya. Promise me you’ll remember.”
“I promise, Mama.” Her arms wrapped around me, and I realized with fear that she was almost as tall as me now. Soon, she’d be taller. Soon, she’d be the one Vladimir looked at with that calculating gaze. “I’ll never wear red. Ever.”
“Good girl.” I held her tight, wishing I could keep her this young forever. Keep her safe from the world her father was building, from the life that awaited her if I couldn’t find a way out.
“Does Nikolai know?” she asked after a moment. “About the red?”
“No. And he never will. He’s too young to understand, and too…” I trailed off, thinking of my ten-year-old son’s fierce protectiveness, his rage that simmered just below the surface, the way he’d always been against his father. If he knew what his father was doing, it would destroy him.
“But you’re his mama. He should protect you.”
“He’s a child, Anya. Neither of you should have to protect me. That’s my job.” I kissed her forehead. “Now go. Find your brother. Take him to the butterfly dome tonight. Stay there until morning, both of you. Don’t come out until the sun rises.”
“Will you be okay?”
The question almost broke me when I didn't even know there were still bits of me to break.
“I’ll survive.” I forced a smile for her sake, “Now go. Quickly. Before your father comes.”
She stood, hesitating at the door. “Mama? When I grow up, can I take you away from here? Nikolai and me, we’ll get you out.”
“Oh, my darling girl.” Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not yet. “When you grow up, you run as far from this house as you can. Both of you. You run and never look back. Now go.”
She left, and I heard her footsteps fade down the hallway. I knew she’d go looking for Nikolai, drag him to the butterfly dome where they’d be safe for the night. That’s why that maze was so important. It would keep my babies safe from the monster who ruled in this house.
I wiped my eyes, trying as hard as I could not to ruin the face of makeup I’d already put on, before looking at that dress again.
Warily, I stood from the bed and made my way to it, and as I pulled it down, Nikolai came out from the closet, running frantically out of the bedroom.
Hidden behind the evening gowns and winter coats, my ten-year-old son had heard every word. Every confession. Every horrible truth about what his father did to me.
About what the color red really meant in this twisted world of ours.
I didn’t have time to run after him and soothe his worries with white lies, but I’d make it a point to talk to him as soon as I’d pulled myself together tonight.
I dressed mechanically, each layer of silk feeling like chains wrapped around my frail body.
The dress fit perfectly because Vladimir had it tailored specifically for me, getting a new one fitted every year like it was some kind of gift I should thank him for.
But they were always the same, year after year.
Cut low enough to entice, high enough to maintain the illusion of class.
Red enough to signal exactly what I was.
Property.
I redid my makeup, covering the shadows under my eyes, the bruises I’d learned to hide so well. I made myself beautiful and pristine, because that’s what was required.
When I finally looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.
The woman staring back at me was a complete stranger. A ghost of a woman who’d died over the years in a red dress.
I thought about Anya’s promise. About Nikolai hiding somewhere in this massive house, with new demons in that troubled head of his. About the life I’d trapped them in by marrying their father.
My babies.
With them on my mind, I made a decision I should have made long ago.
This would be the last time.
The last time I wore red.
The last time I smiled while men touched me.
The last time Vladimir used me as bait for his ambitions and twisted agenda.
After tonight, I would find a way out. For me, for my children, for all of us.
As the conviction cemented in my brain, the door burst open, and Vladimir stood there, already in his tuxedo with a drink in his hand.
“You look perfect,” he said, his eyes raking over me with cold appraisal. “Viktor Morozov is bringing his daughter tonight. She’s twelve. Same age as Anya.”
My blood turned to ice as I heard the underlying meaning in his words. “No.”
“No?” He stepped closer, amused. “You think you have a say?”
“She’s a child, Vladimir. Your daughter. You can’t.”
“I can do whatever I want. She’s becoming a woman. It’s time she learned what that means in this family.” He took a sip of his drink, and my stomach coiled with disgust. “I’ve already had a dress made for her. Red, of course. She’ll stand with you tonight. Learn by example.”
“Over my dead body.” The words came out as a snarl, all submission gone from my voice.
His hand shot out, gripping my throat. “That can be arranged.”
“Touch her, and I’ll kill you myself.”
“You?” He laughed in my face, “You can barely stand up to me, Irina. What makes you think you can protect her?”
“I’m her mother. And I will burn this house to the ground before I let you do to her what you’ve done to me.”
His grip tightened, the air barely making it to my lungs. “She’s going to the ball. She’s going to wear red. And she’s going to learn her place. Just. Like. You did.”
“No!” I clawed at his hand, desperately. “I won’t let you!”
He shoved me backward, and my hip hit the vanity, but I caught myself from stumbling to the ground. “You don’t have a choice. You never did. Now get downstairs before I drag Anya down here myself and let Viktor’s partners have a preview of the new menu.”
Rage consumed me from within. There was no way on this earth that I would allow him to hurt my babies. I grabbed the first thing my hand touched, a crystal perfume bottle. Heavy and sharp.
I threw it at him, hoping to escape and never look back.
It hit him right on his temple, making him stumble back a few steps and drop his glass, blood running down his face.
“You fucking bitch!”
As he shouted, I ran as fast as I could.
Down the hallway, toward Anya’s room. I had to get them out of this house.
But Vladimir was faster, fueled by vodka and pure fury.
He caught me by my hair at the top of the grand staircase, pulling a scream from my lungs as he yanked back.
“You think you can protect her?” His hands gripped my shoulders, spinning me towards him. “You can’t even protect yourself.”
“Let me go!”
“Never. You’re mine. She’s mine. All of you are mine.”
I shoved him with everything I had, fighting to break free.
My heel caught on the hem of that red dress, and with a knowing smile on his face, Vladimir released me with a slight push.
I tried to grab onto his jacket, his arms, anywhere, but he held his hands up in surrender with a vicious grin of victory on his face.
I fell backwards, my head hitting the marble staircase a million times as I rolled down the stairs. Vladimir stood there, watching me with a detachment colder than the ice outside.
It’s true what they say. Something flashes across your eyes when you’re about to die, but it’s not a movie of your life. It’s the reason you were still clinging to it, even though death would have been a gift.
Anya.
Nikolai.
They were defenseless now.
The last thing I saw was red. Red everywhere.
The dress.
The blood.
Nikolai’s hands as he tried to save me.
“Tragic accident,” I heard Vladimir say calmly. “She tripped. You saw it, didn’t you, Nikolai?”
“No!” My baby cried, trying to stop the bleeding with his little hands. “I saw you push her.”
“No.” Vladimir crouched over my body, his hand gripping the back of Nikolai’s neck with unrestrained force. “You saw her trip. Say it.”
“No.”
“Say. It. Or should we go get your sister?”
With whatever strength I still had in me, I tightened my grip around his fingers, my voice barely above a whisper, “It’s okay, Babochka. For Anya.”