Chapter 26
ANYA
They keep me in a small room off the main space for most of the morning.
Dahlia and Mikhail clearly decided it would be better if I didn’t see the whole venue until the last possible moment.
They somehow think surprise will throw me off my game.
They’ll get to enjoy my little surprise with the rest of the guests.
The room smells like hairspray and freshly steamed fabric. This room should be a place of joy and excitement, not one that feelings like the waiting room to my execution.
The makeup artist and hairstylist both hover around me, making last-minute adjustments to my face and hair.
It won’t make any difference. Being wrapped up in a beautiful dress and expensive makeup doesn’t change the heaviness of this moment.
They keep their voices low and polite, which is almost worse than being shouted at.
I wish someone would react appropriately to this situation, just so I would know that I’m not going crazy.
A guard stands near the door with his hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed somewhere above my head. He avoids looking directly at my face, either out of training or superstition. Men like him believe eye contact invites trouble, and trouble is exactly what this room is full of.
I’m so aware of the baby growing inside of me, like we have a psychic connection and I’m trying to keep it calm. I feel its personhood so acutely.
Dahlia kneels to adjust the bottom of the skirt again.
“You look perfect,” she murmurs. “They’re going to be ready for you in a few minutes.”
I stare straight ahead. “Great,” I murmur dispassionately.
She nods and gives me a weak smile. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head right now, especially after our conversation. Not that her feelings matter. They won’t stop me from what needs to be done.
The door opens and two more men step in, both dressed like security but sharper than the ones who stand outside doors. Their posture is rigid, and they’re strapped. They don’t look like normal security guards. They look like actual soldiers. They look like they’re prepared for a battle.
The taller one speaks first.
“It’s time to go,” he tells me gruffly.
The women step back immediately. One of them makes a small sign of the cross without thinking, then catches herself and drops her hand quickly. The gesture makes me feel even more hopeless. Sympathy doesn’t help me. Sympathy gets people killed.
I straighten my back and grab my bouquet from off the table.
I walk toward the men, indicating that they’d better not touch me.
The guard nearest to me shifts as if he expects me to bolt.
There’s nowhere to bolt to. Every hallway in this place leads to another locked door and another set of armed men.
My heels click softly against the floor as they guide me out.
A wedding dress and high heels are just costume pieces.
They are meant to make me look ornamental.
Mikhail thinks that if I look the part, I’ll act the part.
He wants me to be compliant, and thinks he can force me to do it because we’ll have an audience.
The hallway outside the main hall is lined with men.
Some wear suits, some wear tactical gear under coats, some are dressed in black tie, but I can still see the bulges of their guns.
They all look at me the same way, with curiosity and calculation.
They don’t see a bride. They see a prize and a warning.
The air changes as we get closer to the chapel.
I can hear voices now, a low murmur of conversation, laughter, glasses clinking, the sound of a crowd that’s come for the wedding of the century.
They know why they’re here though The Bratva elite doesn’t gather for romance.
They gather for power displays and bloodless humiliations, and today I’m the centerpiece.
The doors to the main hall open.
The space is enormous, designed to make people feel small.
It has been decorated like a wedding, but it is very obviously a warehouse.
White fabric is draped over beams. Flowers are arranged in thick clusters, too perfect and too symmetrical.
Candlelight flickers along tables set with crystal and gold accents.
The Grinkovs clearly spent a lot of money on this wedding, but it couldn’t buy them any class.
The guests turn their heads as soon as I step into view. Dangerous men with their trophy wives. The women don’t look at me sympathetically. They watch me like they’re jealous. As if Mikhail is such a fucking prize.
Conversations taper off in sections as people notice me standing there. They all look on to catch a glimpse of the runaway bride. She’s been found. She’s been brought home safely. The drama of the last two months can finally be put to rest.
My skin prickles, but I keep my face composed. I don’t like the attention under normal circumstances, but now it feels suffocating. I remind myself to breathe.
The guards on either side of me keep moving, guiding me forward at a steady pace. They aren’t dragging me, because that would look bad for the cameras. This is theater, and the actors need to hit their marks.
I keep my gaze forward and let my peripheral vision do the work.
I take in faces I recognize from childhood gatherings, men who shook my father’s hand and kissed my cheek like I was family.
Some of them look away, embarrassed. Some of them look entertained.
A few look almost sympathetic, but sympathy in this room is meaningless now.
There’s nothing that can be done about this.
A woman sits near the front, dressed in black lace, lips painted red, eyes bright with the excitement of spectacle.
She watches me like she’s watching a performance she paid to see.
Her husband leans in to whisper something to her, and she smiles wider.
I don’t need to hear the words to understand the tone.
They’re talking about my body, my face, my value, my willingness to obey.
My stomach roils, and I feel like I might puke down the aisle.
My hand twitches at my side, wanting to protect my baby, wanting to shield it from the scrutiny.
I don’t move it. I keep my hands relaxed and empty because they are hoping for weakness.
They are watching for any sign I might try to escape again. It’s all part of the drama for them.
They won’t get that from me. I’ll play my part right up until the end.
The aisle is too long. The hem of the dress brushes the floor as I walk, the fabric heavy and restrictive. Every step feels like I’m walking toward the gallows. The dress is heavy, weighing me down like shackles. That’s by design, I suspect. It’s harder to run away with all this extra weight on me.
Mikhail stands at the front beneath an arch of flowers, immaculate in a dark suit.
He looks calm and composed, like he’s a happy groom, instead of the man who has been tearing Brooklyn apart for the last few weeks.
His expression is pleasant, almost proud.
He watches me approach with a gleam in his eye.
I wonder how he does it. I wonder how he became such a good actor.
When our eyes meet, his smile deepens slightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are flat and cold. They’re the eyes of a man who believes he’s getting exactly what he wants and no one could stop them if they tried.
I stop at the end of the aisle because the guards stop. The entire room is quiet now, hundreds of people holding their breath like they’re waiting for me to bold. Instead, Mikhail takes a step forward and extends his hand.
It’s a simple gesture. Anyone at a normal wedding would swoon at a groom offering support to his future wife. They would wipe their eyes seeing a man welcoming his bride.
Only I know that this is really a trap. If I take his hand, the cameras get their photo. The crowd gets their proof. The narrative becomes solid. Anya Malenkova finally accepted her place.
I look at his hand and feel the nausea twist again, hard enough that my mouth floods with saliva. I swallow it down without blinking, without flinching. I refuse to get sick in front of him. I refuse to give him that kind of control over my body too.
Mikhail’s voice is low, meant only for me. “You look beautiful.”
I hold his gaze. “You look pleased with yourself.”
His smile stays polite. “I got you down the aisle, didn’t I?”
“Not without a gun to my head,” I answer.
The guards behind me shift slightly. They don’t like that tone. Mikhail’s smile tightens a fraction. “Take my hand, Anya.”
My throat tightens. My heart races. All the fears and anxieties I’ve been holding onto come to a head right here. This is the moment. This is the line.
If I take his hand, I’m agreeing to live in a cage with silk sheets, constantly in fear for my life. I’ll have to raise my baby in a prison, never knowing if Mikhail will choose to use its life against me.
If I refuse, people will die. Viktor will die. I know that. He has already proven to me that he’s capable of senseless murder.
My breath comes shallow. It’s part pain and part control. I keep my face smooth and let my eyes flick once across the room.
There are so many men here with weapons hidden under jackets. There are so many eyes watching. There are so many exits that I can’t reach. The guards have me positioned perfectly so that if I run, they can grab me fast without making it look messy.
Mikhail’s hand remains extended, unwavering. He’s acting patient, but it’s just another layer of his control.
A ring box sits on the table nearby, velvet and expensive. The sight of it makes something hard settle in my stomach. This isn’t the man I should be marrying. My mind drifts, uninvited, to Viktor.
He isn’t some romantic fantasy. He isn’t a white knight who’s coming to save me.
He is, however, the only man who’s treated me like a person.
He allowed me to be myself without compromise.
He accepted who I am, with all my faults and failures, and didn’t ask me to be anything else.
He didn’t try to control me. He didn’t try to hurt me.
I may have gave him hell but in the end, he was just trying to protect me.
He’s the only man I’ve ever truly trusted.
I realize that with sharp irony as I turn back and see my father sitting there, a grim look on his face.
He’s not happy, exactly, but he’s relieved to have this business settled.
That’s all I really am to him. Just business to settle.
This marriage strengthens his operations, even as it strips me of my free will.
I lift my chin slightly, the smallest motion that still feels like defiance. The room is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of electricity somewhere in the building. I can hear someone’s breath catch. I can hear the rustle of fabric as a woman shifts in her chair.
Mikhail’s hand remains out. My hands remain at my sides. The next choice I make will determine everything. It will decide whether I keep breathing, whether Viktor keeps breathing, whether my child gets a chance to exist outside of Mikhail’s reach.
I steady myself the only way I know how. I pick a point in the distance, focus on it, and build the rest of my control around that fixed spot. I take a shallow breath and keep my voice level.
“I’m not yours,” I say quietly, knowing the cameras will still pick it up if they’re close enough.
Mikhail’s smile stays in place, but the skin around his eyes tightens.
“You will be,” he threatens. “Don’t be stupid, Anya.”
I don’t answer him. I don’t give him the satisfaction of an argument in front of an audience. My silence is not surrender. It’s restraint. Because I know that in this moment, I have to make a decision. One that will either free me or end my life.