5. Anya
ANYA
The wedding day arrives.
For two weeks, I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For Dmitri to call it off. For his family to change their mind. For my father to come into my room with that tight, panicked face and tell me the Volkovs have reconsidered.
But no one cancels.
Dmitri stays distant, yes. Short messages. Missed calls. Excuses about work, meetings, family business. Still, every time I ask if everything is fine, he says the same thing.
Of course, baby. Stop worrying.
So I stop asking.
Now I stand in front of the mirror in the bridal suite of the Volkov estate, dressed in white, and finally let out a breath.
It’s happening. I’m getting married.
The gown is beautiful. Even I can admit that without pretending to be modest. Ivory silk clings to my waist and hips before falling into a long, heavy skirt.
The neckline is soft, elegant, not too low, though Dmitri’s mother still complained about it at the final fitting.
Lace sleeves cover my arms, and tiny pearls are sewn into the bodice, catching the light every time I move.
Outside the tall windows, the estate grounds have been transformed. White flowers cover the arch near the garden steps. Rows of chairs face the lake behind the house. Men in black suits stand discreetly along the edges, pretending they are staff and not security.
Everything is controlled. Polished. Perfect.
Exactly the kind of wedding the Volkovs would allow.
My father stands near the door, watching me like I’m a successful investment. “You look beautiful,” he says.
For once, I almost believe he means it.
“Thank you.”
His eyes shine, but not with emotion. Relief, maybe. Pride. Greed. Something uglier.
“This is a good day for us, Anya.”
Us.
I turn back to the mirror and adjust my veil. “It’s my wedding day.”
“Yes,” he says quickly. “Of course.”
But we both know that’s not the only thing this is.
The door opens, and Galina Volkova enters without knocking.
Dmitri’s mother looks exactly the way she always does: immaculate, severe, and impossible to please. Her dark hair is pinned low at her neck. Her navy dress is simple enough to look tasteful and expensive enough to insult every other woman in the room.
Her eyes move over me slowly.
Not warmly. Never warmly.
“Leave us,” she says to my father.
Sergei hesitates for half a second, then bows his head and steps out.
I hate that he obeys her so quickly.
Galina waits until the door closes. Then she turns back to me. “The dress is acceptable.”
I look at her in the mirror. “That’s almost a compliment.”
Her mouth tightens. “You are joining the Volkov family today. This is not a day for childish remarks.”
I swallow my irritation. “Yes, Galina.”
“Mrs. Volkova,” she corrects.
Of course.
I turn to face her. “Mrs. Volkova.”
She steps closer and reaches for my veil, adjusting it though it does not need adjusting. “You are very pretty,” she says.
The words should feel kind. They don’t.
“In your case, that has done most of the work.”
My face warms. I keep my voice steady. “I’m aware beauty has value.”
“Good. Then you are not completely foolish.”
I stare at her.
She smooths the edge of my veil near my shoulder. “Dmitri is easily distracted. He has always been that way. You will learn not to embarrass him with jealousy.”
Something cold slips through my chest. “What does that mean?”
Galina’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It means men like Dmitri do not belong in cages.”
I almost laugh.
Not because it’s funny. Because it is so cruelly casual.
“I’m not trying to cage him,” I say.
“No. You are trying to marry him. That is different, but only slightly.”
My fingers curl into the silk of my skirt. She notices.
“You wanted this life,” she says. “Now you will have it. The name, the house, the protection, the respect. Do not pretend you came here empty of ambition.”
The words hit because they are not entirely false.
That makes me hate her more.
“I care about Dmitri,” I say.
Galina looks almost bored. “Then be useful to him.”
The room goes quiet.
Outside, faint music starts in the garden. Guests are arriving. Somewhere below us, people are smiling, kissing cheeks, admiring flowers, pretending this is a normal wedding instead of an alliance wrapped in silk.
Galina steps back and studies me again. “Your hair should have been higher,” she says.
I breathe in slowly.
Of course.
She turns toward the door, then pauses. “And Anya?”
“Yes?”
“Do not cry today. Your makeup is expensive.”
Then she leaves.
I stand there alone for a moment, staring at myself. The bride in the mirror stares back.
My phone sits on the vanity. I pick it up and check it again. No message from Dmitri. Not even today.
I tell myself he’s busy. I tell myself he’s nervous. I tell myself a lot of things.
The bridesmaids arrive ten minutes later in pale champagne dresses, all of them smiling too brightly.
Irina cries the second she sees me.
Lena presses both hands to her mouth and whispers, “Anya, you look unreal.”
Katya stands behind them. She looks beautiful too. Dark hair swept up, lips painted soft rose, the fabric of her dress falling perfectly over her body. She smiles when our eyes meet. “You look like a Volkov already,” she says.
I smile back.
The photographer herds us out into the side garden for pictures before the ceremony.
The light is good there, soft under the trees, with the lake visible behind the stone terrace.
We pose with bouquets, with champagne glasses, with our arms around each other like we are girls from a world where women only ever wish each other well.
“Closer,” the photographer says. “Katya, move next to the bride.”
Katya steps beside me and slips her arm around my waist. Her perfume is sweet. Familiar. I keep my smile fixed.
Click.
“Beautiful.”
Click.
“Anya, look over your shoulder.”
Click.
“Perfect.”
For twenty minutes, I’m kissed, adjusted, praised, and arranged. My veil is lifted. My flowers are tilted. Someone fixes a loose curl near my cheek. Everyone keeps saying I look calm.
I am not calm.
Dmitri still hasn’t texted. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. He’s here somewhere. He has to be. The guests are arriving. The flowers are paid for. The Volkovs do not humiliate themselves in public. Not like that.
After the photos, Lena notices the clasp on my bracelet has twisted. “Hold still,” she says, fumbling with it. “It’s stuck.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’ll show in the photos.”
Irina laughs softly. “Let the bride breathe, Lena.”
I look down at the bracelet. It was a gift from Dmitri. Diamonds, delicate and cold against my wrist. The clasp slips loose completely and falls into the grass.
“Oh no,” Lena says.
“I saw where it went,” Irina says, crouching carefully so she doesn’t ruin her dress.
For a few minutes, everyone is bent over the lawn, searching through clipped grass and fallen petals. I step back before someone crushes my train.
“I’m going inside,” I say. “I need water.”
“No,” Lena says immediately. “I’ll get it.”
“I’m not helpless.”
Lena blinks.
I soften my voice. “I’ll be right back.”
No one stops me.
I gather the front of my dress and walk toward the side entrance of the estate, away from the garden noise. The house is cooler inside, the marble floors quiet under my shoes. Staff move quickly through the halls with trays and flowers, too busy to notice me.
I should go straight to the bridal suite, but then I hear Dmitri’s voice.
For one stupid second, relief hits me so hard I almost smile.
He’s here.
Then I hear Katya.
My steps slow.
Their voices are coming from the small sitting room near the east corridor, the one Galina said was closed to guests. The door is not fully shut.
I should not stop. I know that even before I do.
But then Katya says, “You need to calm down.”
And Dmitri answers, “Don’t tell me to calm down.” His voice is low. Angry.
I stand just outside the door, half-hidden by the wall, my hand tightening around the fabric of my dress.
“I mean it,” Katya says. “You’re acting strange. People will notice.”
Dmitri laughs softly inside the room, tired and irritated at the same time. “Let them notice.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“No?” he asks. “Maybe I’m tired of hiding.”
Something cold moves through my stomach. I tell myself I’m misunderstanding. I have to be. Katya is one of my bridesmaids. She spent the morning helping button my dress. She held my veil while the stylist pinned it in place.
She’s my friend.
I move closer before I can stop myself.
Through the gap in the door, I see them. Dmitri is standing near the window in his wedding suit, jacket discarded over a chair, bow tie loosened. Katya is directly in front of him, so close their bodies are almost touching.
Too close.
His hand is around her wrist.
Katya shakes her head lightly. “You’re getting married in less than an hour.”
“And?”
“And Anya is going to?—”
“She’ll be fine.”
The words hit harder than they should. Like a slap.
Katya looks up at him, frustration all over her face now. “You can’t keep doing this.”
Dmitri steps closer. “You say that every time.”
Katya presses a hand against his chest, but she doesn’t push him away. If anything, she looks tired. Emotional. Like they’ve had this conversation before.
Many times before.
“You promised me things would change after the wedding,” she says quietly.
Dmitri exhales through his nose and brushes a strand of hair away from her face with unbearable tenderness. “You know why this marriage matters.”
I can barely breathe.
Katya closes her eyes briefly when he touches her.
Then he kisses her. Slowly. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.
His hand slides to her waist while hers fist against the front of his shirt, and suddenly every strange moment from the last two weeks crashes together in my head all at once.
Katya checking her phone constantly.
The secret smiles.
The distance from Dmitri.
The unanswered texts.
The late nights.
The feeling that everyone knew something except me. The realization burns through my chest so hard I can barely stand there.
Inside the room, Katya reaches for him again. “Dmitri, this is bad.”
I stare at the back of his head, at the man I was about to marry, and something inside me finally cracks.
Not heartbreak. Humiliation.
How stupid have I been?
I take a step backward before they can hear my breathing. Then another. My bouquet slips from my fingers onto the floor, white flowers scattering silently across the marble.
Neither of them notices. Because Dmitri’s mouth is already back on hers.
I turn around. I walk at first because running in a wedding dress is difficult and because some irrational part of me still thinks if I move quietly enough this won’t be real.
Then I hear Katya moan softly behind me, and my stomach twists violently. Dmitri murmurs something too low for me to hear, and I hear the unmistakable metallic sound of a belt buckle sliding loose.
That does it.
I run. The hallway blurs around me. My heels slam unevenly against marble as I gather my skirts in both hands and move as fast as I can without falling. Staff members turn toward me in confusion, but I don’t stop. I can still hear them in my head. Her voice. His voice.
I shove through the side doors into the cold afternoon air.
The garden is full of guests. Women in gowns. Men in suits. Music playing near the lake. Someone laughs nearby. The world keeps moving like mine hasn’t just collapsed.
I make it halfway toward the hedges before I throw up.
Hard. Painfully.
One hand braces against the stone wall while the other grips my dress away from the ground. My veil slips crookedly down my back as another wave hits me. I can taste champagne and bile.
I hear footsteps nearby, distant voices, but no one comes close enough to see me hidden behind the tall hedges.
Thank God.
Tears blur my vision. Rage burns through me so intensely it almost feels hot under my skin. I want to scream. I want to march back inside and destroy everything. I want to slap Katya until her lipstick smears across her face.
I want Dmitri to hurt the way I hurt right now.
Instead, I crouch there shaking in a wedding dress while the ceremony guests gather twenty feet away.
Pathetic.
Slowly, my breathing steadies. The nausea fades enough for me to think.
And once I think clearly, one thing becomes obvious.
I cannot marry him.
I physically cannot walk down those stairs and stand beside him pretending none of this happened. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering how many other women there are. I can’t wake up every morning beside a man who looked me in the face while betraying me for months.
And worse?—
I can’t survive the humiliation.
Not in our world.
Everyone will know eventually. Men always talk. Women always know before the wives do. I’ll become one of those polished mafia wives who pretend not to notice lipstick on collars and strange perfume in bedrooms.
No.
Something hardens quietly inside me. I wipe my mouth with trembling fingers and stand slowly. My wedding veil hangs halfway off my head. My mascara has started to smudge beneath my eyes. The perfect bride in the mirror from earlier is gone.
Good.
I suddenly hate her too.
I look back toward the estate. Toward the guests. Toward the life waiting for me inside.
Then I turn away from all of it.
And I decide to run.