19. Anya #2
“Exactly. She’s a message. A pretty one.”
My throat tightens. That’s all I’ll be to these women. A gold-digger, and an intruder.
Lena says, “She looked beautiful.”
“Of course she did,” Irina answers. “That was always her talent.”
The cruelty of that almost makes me laugh. Because I know exactly what she means.
Pretty Anya.
Quiet Anya.
Perfect Anya.
The girl who knew how to sit at lunch, show the ring, smile at the right time, and make everyone believe she had won.
“She always wanted a Volkov name,” another woman says. “She just switched brothers when the first one failed.”
Heat rushes to my face.
I should walk away. Or walk in. Or say something clever and cutting that makes them regret every word.
Instead, I stand there, frozen behind flowers like the same stupid girl who stood outside the sitting room door and listened to Dmitri betray her.
Then Lena speaks again, softer this time. “Katya shouldn’t have done what she did.”
A pause.
Then Irina sighs. “No, she shouldn’t have. But Anya is not innocent either. She loved being envied. She loved being chosen. Maybe this is what happens when you build your whole life around being wanted.”
My chest hurts. My hand trembles slightly. Champagne ripples in the glass. I look down at it and breathe once. Slowly.
No crying. Not here. Not for them.
I step around the flowers.
All four women turn. I smile. It’s not my old smile. Not soft. Not practiced. Not pretty for anyone’s comfort.
“Please,” I say, looking at them one by one. “Don’t stop on my account.”
They go silent.
Irina’s face loses color first. Lena looks like she wants the floor to open and take her with it. The other two glance away, suddenly fascinated by their champagne glasses.
For a second, nobody speaks.
Good.
I let the silence sit.
It’s amazing how different they look now that I’m standing in front of them. A moment ago, their voices were hurtful and certain. Now they look like girls caught stealing lipstick from a dressing table.
Irina recovers first. “Anya,” she says, too brightly. “We didn’t see you there.”
“I know.”
Her smile falters.
Lena takes a small step toward me. “We didn’t mean…”
“What?” I ask. “For me to hear?”
That shuts her up.
I look at Irina. “You were saying something about me switching brothers.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t serious,” she says.
“Right,” I say.
I turn to Lena. She looks genuinely miserable. Maybe she is. Maybe she really did feel bad for me for five minutes before letting the gossip continue because it was easier than stopping it.
“I thought you were my friends,” I say.
The words are simple. That’s what makes them hurt.
Lena’s eyes shine. “I know.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t. Because if you knew, you wouldn’t be standing here discussing me like that.”
I leave before she can answer.
My hands are steady. My face is calm.
Inside, I’m shaking.
I need air. Or water. Or a room where no one is watching me decide whether I’m strong enough to stay standing. I make it halfway down the corridor leading away from the main hall before someone catches my wrist.
I know it’s him before I turn.
Dmitri.
His fingers close around me like he still has the right.
“Let go,” I say.
He doesn’t.
He looks perfect. That’s the worst part. Perfect black tuxedo, perfect hair, perfect face arranged into something between anger and disbelief.
“You’ve made your point,” he says.
I stare at him.
“My point?”
“Yes. The dress. The ring. The dance with him. This whole little performance.” His eyes move over me, and for the first time, the look makes my skin crawl. “Enough, Anya.”
I pull my wrist, but his grip tightens.
“You don’t get to say anything to me,” I say. “After everything you did, you have no right.”
His mouth hardens. “You ran from our wedding.”
“You were kissing my bridesmaid.”
“That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to marry you.”
The sentence is so horrible, so selfish, so perfectly Dmitri, that for a moment I can’t speak.
He leans closer. “You think Yaromir cares about you?”
My chest tightens. I hate that he knows where to aim.
Dmitri sees it and smiles faintly.
I lift my chin. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know my brother.” His voice lowers. “He doesn’t marry women like you because he wants them. He married you because it hurt me. Because it insulted my father. Because you were available and angry enough to be useful.”
I tell myself not to react. I fail. Something flickers across my face, and Dmitri catches it immediately.
“He told you it was revenge, didn’t he?” Dmitri says. “And you were so desperate to feel chosen again, you agreed.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because I have thought them too. Because somewhere beneath the red dress and the diamonds and the way Yaromir looked at me, I know this marriage began as a weapon. Maybe I am still only that. A pretty insult with a ring.
My throat tightens.
Dmitri’s hand slides from my wrist to my forearm. “Come back before this gets worse,” he says.
I look at him then. Really look at him.
The man I almost married.
The man I once thought would save me from being Sergei Sokolov’s daughter.
And all I see is someone who can’t understand how completely he has lost me.
I pull my arm free. “Do not touch me again.”
His expression changes. “Anya.”
I step back. The corridor tilts a little around me. I hate that he has rattled me. I hate that my heart is racing. I hate that I need to get away before the tears threatening my eyes become visible.
So I turn and walk quickly toward the women’s restroom.
I don’t run at first.
Then I hear him follow, and I move faster.
Inside, the bathroom is all marble, mirrors, and gold light. Too quiet compared to the auction hall. I push through the door and brace both hands on the sink, breathing hard.
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
My reflection stares back at me. Red dress. Bright eyes. Mouth pressed tight.
Dmitri is wrong.
He is. He has to be.
The door opens behind me.
I spin.
Dmitri steps inside.
For a second, I’m too shocked to speak.
“This is a women’s bathroom,” I say.
He locks the door.
My blood goes cold. “Dmitri.”
“I just want to talk.”