Tatiana
Chapter thirty-five
The silence in the town car is the heaviest thing I think I’ve ever felt. I’m only vaguely aware of it. The depression that’s swallowed me whole these past few weeks blankets me like a thick fog. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t even find it in me to care about anything anymore.
I’m not even in my own body. I’m back in the cabin, replaying every moment, every word, every touch.
I know the boys are worried, and I know I should feel guilty for making them worry, but I’m numb.
I can’t live in a world where we can’t be together.
I know I’m disassociating, and that it’s probably not healthy, but therapy isn’t exactly an option.
I’d have to care enough to even ask. And I don’t.
My mother is prattling on about something about the wedding, but it’s just background noise.
The car pulls up to a curb outside of a street lined with shops. Roman opens my door for me, offering me a hand to step out, but I avoid it. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Avoiding them. Avoiding life. Avoiding the inevitable.
I’m being married off to the enemy. Gifted to the man who tried to murder me. If I’d doubted how truly little my family valued me, I don’t anymore. There’s a real possibility this man kills me before the wedding is over.
And I just don’t care.
I’m not suicidal. I don’t think. But I wouldn’t be upset if he does kill me. What else do I have to live for? Dramatic? Maybe. Do I care? No.
Roman stiffens as I pass him, but he can’t do or say anything.
He flanks us as I follow my mother into the shop. It’s a bakery.
A beautiful, curvy woman spots us and smiles wide.
“You must be the bride-to-be,” she says, stepping forward and offering a hand. I don’t shake it. Her smile falters as she picks up on the vibe. Again, I should feel bad for bringing the mood down, but I don’t. I don’t feel much of anything anymore.
She pivots. “Well, I’m excited for our tasting today. Do you already have in mind a flavor or sets of flavors you prefer?”
I don’t answer.
“She’s feeling a bit under the weather today,” my mother interrupts. I don’t understand why we’re even pretending that I’m a normal bride and that this is a normal wedding.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Did you want to reschedule?”
“We won’t have the time. The wedding’s been rushed.”
The woman nods, even though she doesn’t look convinced. “Right. Well, have a seat, and I’ll bring out the samples I’ve prepared for you,” she says, motioning toward a cute table and chairs.
When she slips through a door in the back, my mother leans forward.
“I never wanted this for you,” she says, her voice low. She looks back over her shoulder at Roman to ensure that he’s far enough away that he can’t hear her. For the first time in a while, I’m curious. “That’s why I tried to set you up with someone before your father could use you in his business.”
My brain is sluggish, but I finally start understanding.
She saw this coming. She knows women and marriages are used in our world to create contracts and alliances.
Of course she does. She was probably in an arranged marriage with my father.
Why have I never heard their love story? Or the story behind how they met?
Maybe that’s why she’s always self-medicating. Maybe that’s what all the matchmaking was about. Not in an effort to get rid of me, but to protect me from this? She knows better than anyone my father’s heartlessness. He’s never looked at her with an ounce of compassion.
I blink at her, dumbfounded. But words don’t come. She’s also never exactly been motherly to me either, so one quiet confession isn’t going to replace a lifetime of a lack of relationship.
“I can’t give you the marriage you want, but I’m hoping I can give you the wedding you want. It’s the least I can do.”
Something clicks into place in my brain. This is why we’re at a cake tasting. Why she didn’t just pick everything out for me. This is her apology for her role in this arranged marriage.
Hope or gratitude attempts to surge forward, but it’s downed under the numbness. I could rally and try to pretend that this is my dream; that I’m taste-testing the wedding cake I’m going to share with my guys. But I can’t find it in me.
So, I don’t.
My mother huffs in frustration at my lack of response.
The curvy baker returns with two trays of bite-sized pieces of cake. White cake with chocolate frosting, red velvet, chocolate on chocolate, and a German streusel looking one, and more. All with decorated toothpicks sticking out of the tops.
My mother picks up the first and elbows me to do the same. It’s not this poor woman’s fault that this is a sham.
I pick up the red velvet and pop it into my mouth. It tastes like ash. But I like the color. A mental image of my blood splashed across the white cream of the cake assaults me, but it feels fitting.
“That one,” I say.
“You don’t want to try the others...” the woman tries.
“No. That one’s perfect. Thank you,” I say, standing and walking out the door.
Roman follows me, letting the door slide shut behind him. He wraps a warm hand around my wrist.
“Tanya, please...” he starts, but the door opens again, and he drops my wrist like it’s burned him. The brief touch makes my nose burn with unshed tears. I don’t know what he was planning on saying, but it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.
So he drives us to our next location. Internally, I groan when I read the sign hanging above an ornate glass door.
White Magnolia Bridal.
It feels like a slap in the face. Because yes, I’ve imagined my wedding day since I was a kid. And trying on a wedding gown was going to be a special occasion. With friends. And champagne. And tears. And excitement to walk down the aisle to the love of my life.
Think I could get away with a black dress?
Roman doesn’t even offer his hand this time. He simply escorts us into the shop. We’re greeted by an overly cheerful older woman and escorted into a section with changing rooms, a trifold mirror on a platform, and plush chairs.
“Do we have a dress shape in mind?” the woman asks, and my chest tightens. Because yes. I do. Or, I did.
I’ve always loved traditional Russian wedding dresses.
I love how modest they are, coming up to the neck and having long sleeves.
But they’re ornate, detailed, and full of decoration.
The headdress would make me feel like a princess.
The one I fell in love with doesn’t have the bright reds of a traditional dress, but gold and silver filigree down the arms and bodice, the dress flowing out and to the floor.
I can’t wear that. I won’t.
“Something thin,” I reply. If I can’t pick my husband, I can pick the exact opposite of my dream wedding.
“Thin?” The woman looks perplexed.
“Sheer. Sleeveless. One that hugs my body,” I explain.
“I think I have just the one...” she says before disappearing behind a swinging door.
“Are you sure?” Irina asks. I don’t know what she knows about me or my dream wedding, but I think she can tell something’s off. She’s surprisingly sober today.
I nod as the woman returns with her arms full of whites and creams in plastic bags.
My stomach sours. I don’t want to be here.
I don’t want to do this. I want to order something ugly off , or wear a gown I already own to this sham of a wedding.
This is a mockery of everything I thought I wanted.
Do I even want a wedding anymore? Even if I got to pick the groom?
I’m not sure I do anymore.
My eyes slide over to Roman involuntarily.
His face is a mask of professional indifference, but when his dark eyes meet mine, he cracks a little.
I hadn’t thought about how hard this would be for him.
To watch me prepare to marry another man.
I imagine the roles reversed, and I’m watching him prepare to marry another woman.
It makes me sick to my stomach to think about. And he has to watch. He doesn’t have a choice. My heart hurts for him. But I slide the numbness back in and ignore it.
The saleswoman escorts me behind a curtain. I slip out of my clothes and into exactly the type of dress I was imagining. It’s a satin dress that looks more like a slip. She uses some sort of clamps to fit it to my body, and it’s perfect. It’s nothing like the dress I want.
I walk back onto the sales floor, and the woman helps me step up onto the dais so Irina can see it from every angle in the mirror.
My mother’s silent.
But Roman clears his throat. My eyes find his again in the mirror. His Adam’s apple works up and down, and he shoves his fists into the pockets of his slacks.
He’s barely keeping it together.
“Yep. This is the one,” I say, retreating back into the dressing room. I shrug out of it before the woman can even undo the clips. I’m back in my regular clothes before she can argue.
I walk past Roman, throwing open the door to the boutique and stepping out onto the sidewalk. He follows me, but this time simply stands silently behind me as I catch my breath.
The car ride back home is silent; my mother scrolls on her phone, Ro keeps throwing me worried looks in the rearview mirror, but I just let the familiar blanket of depression slide back over me.