4. Sofia #2
The household is already awake when I go downstairs.
Staff move through the halls with floral arrangements, garment bags, trays of coffee, and expressions of controlled panic.
Every surface seems to have been invaded by wedding objects: ribbons, paper samples, seating drafts, little boxes of sugared almonds tied with gold thread.
My wedding has become a fungus. It spreads while I sleep.
In the morning room, the wedding planner stands near the long table with two assistants and several stacks of envelopes.
Polina Kuznetsova is tall, elegant, and frighteningly efficient, with a blond chignon so tight it looks like it could hold state secrets.
She greets me with the bright smile of a woman paid enough to pretend I have choices.
“Good morning, Miss Antonova.”
“Is it?”
Her smile doesn’t move. Professional. Impressive. “The invitations have arrived.”
My gaze drops to the table. There they are. Stacks of cream envelopes, thick and beautiful, my doom arranged alphabetically.
For some reason, seeing them in person makes the wedding feel more real than the dress fittings or the church visits ever have.
Maybe because invitations travel. They leave the house.
They enter other people’s hands. They tell the world something is happening whether or not the bride has agreed to it.
Polina lifts one card carefully and shows it to me. Gold lettering gleams across the page.
Dmitri Sokolov and Sofia Antonova request the honor of your presence—
I stop reading. The words blur after my name.
“Lovely,” I say.
Polina beams. “We were very pleased with the final embossing.”
“Yes. Nothing says lifelong commitment like aggressive stationery.”
One of her assistants drops her pen. Polina pretends not to notice.
My uncle enters a few minutes later, already dressed for meetings, his phone in one hand and his patience, as usual, in limited supply. He looks over the invitations, gives a short nod, and speaks to Polina about courier routes, confirmations, and security checks.
I sit at the table with coffee and half a croissant, ignored in the way brides often are while everyone plans their lives with great enthusiasm.
Then Polina says, “And Miss Antonova, these are for your personal list.”
A small stack of blank envelopes appears in front of me.
I look at them. “My personal list?”
“Yes,” she says. “Mr. Sokolov approved twenty invitations for your guests.”
I blink.
Twenty guests.
How generous of him. Truly, someone should alert the saints. Dmitri Sokolov, merciful ruler of my social existence, has allowed me to invite up to twenty whole people to witness my legal captivity.
I place a hand over my chest. “Only twenty? I was hoping to invite the entire circus.”
My uncle doesn’t look up from his phone. “Don’t start.”
“I’m touched, actually. Dmitri remembered I know people.”
“He approved enough.”
“Enough for what? A hostage exchange?”
Polina’s smile begins to strain.
My uncle finally looks at me. “Sofia.”
I lift both hands in surrender. “I’m grateful. Deeply moved. I may write a poem.”
“Write addresses,” he says.
That, apparently, is the end of the discussion.
I take the envelopes.
Twenty.
In truth, I don’t even have twenty people I want there.
My school friends live abroad. The women who orbit our family are not friends so much as witnesses with better jewelry.
Anya is the only person I can imagine inviting because she is the only one who might smuggle vodka in her purse and whisper inappropriate commentary during the vows.
Maybe that’s enough.
I carry the envelopes back to my room after breakfast, along with a list Polina has helpfully provided of acceptable guests.
Acceptable.
I stand in the center of my bedroom and read the names. Cousins I barely know. Wives of men my uncle likes. Two women Dmitri’s mother thinks will look good in photographs.
I think of my best friend. She’s the last person my uncle would want there. Divorced, too loud mouthed for her own good. So naturally, she’s the first person I call.
She answers on the fourth ring. “If this is about the wedding, I’m already wearing black.”
“Excellent. Funeral theme.”
“I knew it. Who died?”
“My autonomy.”
“Tragic. Did she suffer?”
“Long illness.”
Anya sighs dramatically. “I’ll send flowers.”
I sit on the edge of my bed, holding one of the blank envelopes. “I need something.”
“That depends. Is it illegal?”
“Probably not.”
“Disappointing.”
“It may become politically dangerous.”
“Better.”
I look toward my closed bedroom door, then lower my voice. “Do you know how to get an address?”
“Whose?”
I hesitate. Even saying his name feels like opening a window in a locked room.
“Damir Volodin.”
Silence.
For the first time in our entire friendship, Anya doesn’t immediately have a joke.
Then she says, very calmly, “Sofia.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do. Why the hell do you need Damir Volodin’s address?”
“For the wedding.”
Another silence. Longer.
Then she starts laughing.