Chapter 3
Chapter three
Catarina
I need to get out of this prison. I need to figure out why my father is letting this happen.
I lie in bed, surrounded by Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count higher than I could possibly care to imagine, staring up at the ceiling. I might be in a cage, but it's a gilded cage. And I mean that literally, as in it is lined with gold.
But it doesn’t make me feel better.
Every inch of this room drips with opulence. When you have as much money as the Volkovs do, you have to find creative ways to spend it. I guess adding dainty lace trimming to the ceiling and lining it with actual gold flakes is a good way to flush your hard-earned money down the drain.
At least we don’t do that gaudy shit at home. Petrovs prefer a different, more modern sort of elegance. There’s something about gold that gives me the ick.
But I still can't ignore the part of me that wants to explore this estate and take inventory of all the little details like that. I lift myself from my stomach to my elbows and stare at my own reflection in the oversized mirror hanging above the wardrobe in front of the bed.
The day after I arrived, the maid came in and filled it with clothes that were my exact size. The kind of clothes that the ultra-rich know and love and gatekeep from the rest of the world.
It’s an insult, really. I’d preferred to have my own things.
But at this rate, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to fucking rot in this room.
My eyes shift to the clock, seeing that it’s nearly 10:00 a.m., and it makes me miss my phone. I miss my friends—if you could even call them that. Still, I miss my cousin, Irina. She’s the closest thing I have to a best friend.
Ugh. At least I can bet she is worried about me. Even if my father isn’t.
I shut my eyes and hold them that way until Mikhail’s limp body fills my lids. Immediately, I force them back open and let out a sigh as my stomach knots up with grief. Maybe someday, it’ll go away.
Maybe.
Before I can ponder it any further, the door bursts open and I jump up, looking at the swarm of people rushing into my room with a hint of panic pumping in my veins.
“Could you not give me a second?” I demand, jumping out of the bed and jerking my oversized shirt down to cover as much of my legs as possible. My face grows embarrassingly hot. “What the hell is going on?”
“Hmm.” An older woman with straight white hair and lips morphed into a permanent frown approaches me. She looks me up and down, inhaling deeply as she wrinkles her nose. When have you last bathed?” Her Russian accent is so thick, I can barely understand her.
I don't answer the question. The truth is, I don't know the answer. But if I did, I wouldn’t tell her anyway.
She narrows her eyes as I fold my arms across my chest. “Go. Now!” She points to the bathroom.
I open my mouth to say something in defiance but decide not to. I do need a shower. But still, I’m doing this for me. Not her.
And that’s what I keep telling myself as I hurry off to the bathroom.
I barely register everything going on around me as a maid—the one I terrified, named Helena—rushes into the bathroom and turns on the water.
“I can handle it,” I say as she holds out her hand to help me step into the ornate, oversized clawfoot tub.
“I'm sorry, Miss, I've been instructed to watch you,” Helena says, bowing her head while standing with her hands crossed in front of her.
Her eyes bounce from her wringing fingers to me, as I sink lower into the warm water.
It penetrates deep into my bones, and I shiver, as my muscles start to relax.
And it feels…good.
I almost forget Helena is there at all, soaking in the moment of peace.
Well, it’s peaceful until the older Russian woman steps into the doorway, clapping her hands together loud enough to make me jump. “We have one hour to make you presentable. Stop fooling around and wash the filth off of yourself. This isn’t what your generation calls an everything bath.”
It’s an everything shower, thanks.
But her words still catch me off guard, and I look back at Helena as the Russian woman exits. “Make me presentable for what? What’s going on?”
Helena just gestures to the soap. “It'll be easier if you just comply.”
I nervously sink a little lower into the tub, as the Russian woman takes inventory of everything happening in the room. She meets my eyes, holds them long enough to make my chest tighten with anxiety, and then exits.
What the hell is actually going on? Do I get to go home? What happened?
“Here.” Helena hands me a razor. “You need to shave your legs…and everything else. Raisa requests it.”
I stare at her. “Raisa?”
She shrugs. “The woman who was just in here.”
And that’s the best answer I get.
I quickly finish bathing, and then step out into a towel Helena’s holding in her hands at the ready for me.
I wrap it around myself before she guides me to a chair set up in front of the bedroom mirror.
A hairstylist is there with blow dryers, curling irons, and enough hair gels and creams to rival Guy Fieri's own collection.
Something is definitely going on…
“I need to know what’s happening,” I ask, my eyes on Raisa while the stylist brushes through my wet hair to start drying it.
“We need to leave her hair down. Make sure there are plenty of curls,” Raisa instructs the stylist, not answering my question. “We need to play on her best features for the sake of pictures.”
Pictures?
My eyes dart around the room as I rack my brain for an escape plan. But considering the fact that I’m stuck in a towel, and it’s freezing outside…
My options are limited.
And the room is too crowded with people for me to make it to the door without anyone intervening, anyway.
Aside from Helena, Raisa, and the stylist, there are two men standing by the door with their hands clasped in front of them like bouncers at a nightclub.
I know the moment I try anything, they're going to grab me and slam me right into place.
By now, I know how this works.
They’re never going to let me slip away. And it’s useless to try.
When I turn my attention back to the mirror, my hair is completely dry, voluminous blonde waves now hanging around my shoulders.
“Beautiful,” the stylist mutters under her breath, plumping my hair. “You look great.”
When she’s done using all the tools, she ties the front ends of my hair behind my head, clasping them together with a clip decorated with little green vines and pink flowers.
And that causes me to pause.
This is a wedding hair ornament. I know. I know because I just went through this with Mikhail.
That thought is repeated in my mind like an echo chamber as the woman grabs a garment bag off the bed and unzips it, revealing a long white gown.
A wedding dress.
I stand up, nearly knocking the stylist over as I approach the wedding dress. “What the hell is this? Why the hell am I putting on a wedding dress?”
“Don't waste time asking obvious questions,” Raisa sighs, holding the dress up to me. “You've lost weight, haven't you?”
She shakes her head and walks toward the door, and leaves. I promptly turn around and look for some kind of help from Helena or the stylist, but neither of them meets my eyes.
My entire body trembles and my eyes start to burn with potential tears. My throat goes dry and I know the next word I say is going to be nothing more than a croak.
Why isn't anyone here helping me? Where is my father? Where is my family?
The woman comes back into the room, dress in hand, alongside a tall Latino man neatly dressed in a nice suit.
Before I know what's happening, the woman in front of me is taking my towel off, and instructing me to step into the back of the wedding dress.
I frantically cover myself so the guards at the door don't see and step in quickly, if only to avoid anyone seeing more of me than my late husband ever had.
The wedding dress is pulled up and zipped in the back before the woman and the man, who I now realize is a tailor, grab different parts of the fabric to make it form-fitting to my body.
If I weren't so horrified by the fact that I was being forced into a wedding dress, I might be able to look down and admire its beauty.
But it’s hardly possible right now.
It's form-fitting in the bodice, with long, cold shoulder sleeves that reach just below my wrist. The skirt of the dress hugs my curves, but loses the tight form fit at my thighs, where it pools around my feet.
The gown is top-to-bottom lace with silky fabric underneath that feels like water against my skin.
I'm nearly speechless when I catch sight of myself wearing it in the mirror. It's absolutely stunning. It's not what I ever imagined myself walking down the aisle in, and it's nothing compared to the dress that I lovingly picked out for myself previously.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't love it.
I just absolutely don’t love that I have no idea what the fuck is happening to me right now.
The tailor stands behind me and grabs his tools to quickly take my measurements before literally sewing me into the dress.
I watch as the loose parts around the bodice reform themselves to fit me like a second skin.
Truthfully, I don't know how I'm going to get out of the dress, but I have more pressing things to worry about.
While he's sewing, the hairstylist grabs a few makeup brushes and does my eyes, cheeks, and lips.
She mumbles about how she wants me to look natural and young, not wanting to cake my face with too much makeup.
She tries to make me feel better by complimenting me, but it does nothing to calm my worries.
By the time everyone is done, they have me look at myself in the mirror, and I can barely rationalize what's happened. In the span of an hour, I've gone from bedhead to ready to walk down the aisle.
And I still don’t know why.
I turn to the tailor and the stylist, raising a brow. “Okay, now can someone tell me what is about to happen?”
They all exchange a look, as if I’m a fucking idiot.
“Obviously, I know it’s a wedding,” I point out the elephant in the room. “But I’d like to know—”
Before I can finish my thought, two men—the ones by the door—come barging in, grabbing each of my arms.
“Time to go, Petrov,” one of them mutters, his voice sharp and cruel. He lets out a sick laugh, and all I can do is give in to the painful pressure on my biceps.
They drag me out of the room, down the stairs, and then shove me into a blacked-out Escalade.
And there’s not an ounce of strength in me that’s enough to fight them. I’m not stupid enough to try, either. Instead, I resign myself to sitting right in between the two men in the backseat, my heart pounding heavily in my chest.
“Are we going back to my home?” I ask, eyeing the one to my left. He’s never looked at me once in this entire exchange, and now, I only catch a side eye from his jade irises.
“Zatknis' (Shut up).” The word is harsh, and normally, I’d have slapped one of my father’s men for ever uttering it toward me, but these guys…
They might hit back.
So, I just focus my attention out the windshield, instead.
It's a short drive and I try to figure out where we're going along the way, but I'm not used to this part of the city. I don't even know if this is technically a part of the city. I think we're in Kings Point, but I can't be sure. I hardly ever leave Manhattan.
And for good reason.
The car parks outside of a church, and I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am. They did, after all, force me into a wedding dress.
Fucking bastards. My father is never going to let this happen.
I take in the ornate cathedral, decorated for Christmas with a nativity scene on the front lawn and white lights lining the roof. A beautiful Christmas tree is visible from the front window, but my stomach only feels sicker when I take it all in.
It’s all beautiful, but it’s all wrong.
Before I can think about it anymore, I'm pulled out of the car, a pink and white bouquet is shoved in my hand, and I’m told to stand in front of the door until they're ready for me.
After a few moments of painful silence, Here Comes the Bride plays, and the doors are pushed open by both of the burly guards who watched me get ready.
The pews are empty with the exception of my father standing in the very first pew on the bride's side, looking back with an expressionless face.
What the ever-loving fuck?
And standing at the end of the aisle, under the marital arch, is none other than Matysh Volkov.