Chapter 4 Vera #2
She's elegant—perfectly styled blonde hair, expensive clothes, knowing eyes that seem to see too much. When Pyotr brings me downstairs, she's waiting in the foyer with a warm smile.
"Ready for dress shopping?" she asks.
I glance at Pyotr.
"She's ready," he answers for me. Then to Anya: "Thank you for taking her."
Anya waves him off. "Traditional groom anxiety. You're not allowed to see the dress before the wedding, Pyotr. It's bad luck." She links her arm through mine, already guiding me toward the door. "Come on, Vera. Let's find you something beautiful."
In the car, Anya is quiet for a while. Then: "I know what you're feeling."
I doubt that. "Do you?"
"Dimitri forced me too." She says it casually, like discussing the weather. "He took me as payment for my family's debt. Forced marriage. No choice. No out."
I stare at her. "What happened?"
"I hated him." She glances at me, eyes soft with understanding. "God, I hated him so much. Fought him every day. Tried to escape. But somewhere along the way..." She pauses. "I fell in love with him. Chose him. Every day I choose him."
"But he forced you."
"Yes." She doesn't flinch from it. "And Pyotr is forcing you. But, Vera..." She reaches over to squeeze my hand. "Your body wants him. I can tell. The way you look at him. The way you move around him. You're already halfway to surrender."
I want to deny it. Want to insist she's wrong.
But I think about this morning. About grinding on his lap. About how I came apart for him again.
"I don't know how to accept this," I admit quietly.
"You don't have to accept it all at once. Just... one day at a time. One moment at a time." She pulls into a parking lot—a bridal boutique with a "Private Appointment" sign in the window. "For now, let's find you a dress that makes you feel beautiful. Everything else can wait."
The bridal shop is empty except for us. The owner greets us with champagne I don't drink and leads us to a private room lined with mirrors.
"What style are you looking for?" she asks.
I have no idea. "White," I say stupidly.
Anya squeezes my hand. "We'll know it when we see it."
She wasn't kidding about trying on dresses. We go through at least fifteen. Each one is beautiful in its own way—ballgowns with layers of tulle, sleek columns of silk, vintage lace confections. But none of them feel right.
Some make me look too young. Others too severe. One makes me look like I'm playing dress-up in my mother's clothes.
"This isn't working," I say after the twelfth dress. I'm standing in front of the mirror in a strapless gown that's objectively gorgeous but feels all wrong. "Maybe we should just pick something and be done with it."
"No." Anya's voice is firm. "This is the one thing you get to choose, Vera. Your dress. We're not settling."
"But everything else is chosen for me."
"Exactly. So this matters." She studies me for a moment. "What do you want to feel like tomorrow? Not what you think you should feel like. What do you actually want?"
I stare at my reflection. What do I want?
"Beautiful," I admit quietly. "Even if it's all wrong. Even if I'm marrying him against my will. I want to feel beautiful when he sees me."
Anya's expression softens. "Then let's find something that makes you feel that way."
She disappears into the racks and returns with a dress I almost missed, tucked between two more dramatic gowns. It's simpler than the others. Fitted white satin with delicate lace sleeves. A low back. Clean lines that somehow feel both elegant and vulnerable.
"Try this one."
I slip into it, and the moment the owner fastens the last button, I know.
It fits perfectly. Hugs my curves without being tight. The lace sleeves are sheer enough to show skin but cover enough to feel modest. The low back dips just above my lower spine—bare skin that I know will drive Pyotr crazy.
I look at myself in the mirrors and barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks like a bride. A real bride. Not a girl being forced into marriage, but a woman walking toward her future with her head high.
"Oh," I breathe.
"Yeah," Anya says behind me. "That's the one."
I turn slightly, watching how the dress moves. How it catches the light. The train pools behind me like water.
"What do you think?" the owner asks.
I can't stop staring at myself. At this version of me that looks strong and soft at the same time. "It's perfect."
Anya comes to stand beside me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You look stunning. Pyotr is going to lose his mind when he sees you."
"Good." The word surprises me. Since when do I want him to lose his mind over me?
Since yesterday in the nursery. Since this morning in the library. Since I started realizing that my body's betrayal might not be betrayal at all.
We accessorize with a simple veil, delicate earrings. The owner boxes everything carefully while I change back into my regular clothes. But I can still feel the dress on my skin, the way it made me look.
***
When we return to the estate, Pyotr is waiting by his car. He stands as we approach, eyes locked on the garment bag Anya carries.
"Don't even think about it," Anya warns when he moves toward it. Her tone is sharp, an advantage of behind the Pakhan’s wife, I suppose. “You'll see it tomorrow. Tradition, Pyotr." She hands me the bag, squeezes my shoulder. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Then she's gone, and it's just me and him and the dress between us.
"Was it perfect?" he asks, eyes searching my face.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Good." He steps closer, cups my face with one hand. "Tomorrow you wear it. Tomorrow you walk down the aisle. Tomorrow you become mine in every way that matters."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone, gentle despite everything.
"One more day, malyshka," he murmurs. "One more day and then no more waiting. No more restraint. Just you and me and forever."