Epilogue
Alex
Istare at my reflection in the mirror; the dress costs more than three months of café shifts combined.
It fit perfectly. That’s the part that gets me — not the cost, not the bright white of the fabric, or the way the hand beading caught the light when I moved.
The fact that it fits perfectly, as if I’d been poured into it.
I had never gone to the store for a fitting; I’d simply picked a dress, and it had appeared in my room one day. Tailored to my measurements.
It was then that I realized that Victor had been thinking about this day far longer than I had known. He’d been imagining me in a white dress while I had been deciding whether to trust him, and he had never said a word.
He had arranged for everyone to stay at a hotel two blocks from the venue.
And by everyone, I mean anyone, and everyone important to us, including my friends from the café.
Rosa spent an hour on my hair and makeup, and I was desperately trying not to undo it as tears of joy threatened to fall from my eyes.
“You look incredible,” she says, standing behind me, her reflection joining mine in the mirror. “And no crying.”
“I’m not crying,” I insist.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “That’s what I said on my wedding day, too.” She smooths a stray strand of hair and looks at me in the mirror. “I knew something had changed when you met him, you couldn’t hide it, you came into work with that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one that says that you’d met someone special, someone you felt deeply for that you weren’t yet sure you should.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “The one that says something happened that you didn’t want to tell me about, but that you weren’t sorry happened either.”
I look at her, “Rosa.”
“I’m just saying I called it,” she says. “From the very beginning I called it.” She steps back and looks at me with that soft look in her eyes. The warmth of someone genuinely happy for their friend. “You deserve this,” she says. “Both of you.”
She’s not talking about Victor; she means Evie and me. I don’t argue with her. Because for the first time in my life, I agree.
I look back at my reflection in the mirror — this new version of myself, compared to the version I’m preparing to leave behind. The journey began with four hundred and twelve dollars, a copied key, and a photograph. Now it was ending with a white dress, in a hotel suite, and a wedding.
Deemed ready, we walked out together, and surprisingly, I feel ready to explore this next phase in life.
The venue is a private hall on the north side of the city with which Victor has a contract. The space has been transformed overnight into something that bears no resemblance to the underworld we operate in. Flowers everywhere — white and deep green, candlelight, and guests.
Mr. Roberts sits in the third row in a suit that I strongly suspect he has not worn in the last decade. When he sees me come through the door, his face lights up, and he puts his hand over his heart, nodding once.
Rosa slips into a seat in the second row beside a woman I don’t know. She leans over to say something to her, and Rosa listens with a look of interest. I’ll ask about it later; right now, I’m getting married.
Several prominent Russian families are present. All of them in designated rows, dressed accordingly. I’ve been introduced to most of them.
Annika and Kirill Bogdanov are near the back, which I am told is their preference.
Annika catches my eye as I pass and gives a small nod of approval.
Basili and his wife are two rows ahead of them, near the aisle.
His dark eyes are watchful. He, too, gives a nod of approval as I pass.
Victor told me he is someone worth knowing, which, from Victor, is the highest endorsement.
And then there is Victor.
Standing at the end of the aisle. In a suit that has been made for him, dark and precise, his shoulder is healed. He looks at me with pride as I walk toward him, and I don’t look away.
The ceremony is short and sweet. Victor isn’t a man who appreciates overindulgence and unnecessary fanfare, which extends apparently to vows, even simple and direct. When he is done, I say mine, smiling the whole time.
He kisses me when it’s over, and the room erupts with celebration.
Evie is beside me, my maid of honor, and she manages not to cry but just barely. Her jaw set and her eyes bright as she struggles to keep her composure.
After the reception, she goes with Rosa, as planned, with Vera and an overnight bag in tow.
“Behave,” I tell her when I hug her goodbye.
“I always do,” she says.
She pulls back and looks at me with a look I’ve never seen before. Not just loving, but content.
“You look happy,” she says quietly. So only I hear. “And I’m really happy for you.”
“I am,” I tell her. Which is the truest thing I’ve said in years.
She nods, satisfied with that, and goes with Rosa. I watch them go, leaning against Victor gently, his hand finds the small of my back, and I lean into it. We watch them drive away before he guides me to our own car, and we head back to the penthouse.
When we get there, it's quiet, it’s just us for the first time ever. Victor closes the door, and I hear the locks engage. He turns and looks at me across the room, and the look on his face is one of pure mischief.
“Come here,” he commands.
I cross the room with a smile I can’t resist.
He takes my face in both hands, fingers curving at my jaw, tilting my chin up, and he looks deep in my eyes as he says, “Moya zhena.”
Then he kisses me, and I melt completely against him.
His hands move from my face to my hair, and I feel the locks come loose as he pulls the pins out one by one.
My hands unbutton his jacket, then move to push it off his shoulders.
When it falls to the floor, I move to the edge of his waistband and start pulling at the shirt tucked there.
“The dress,” he growls against my mouth.
“Buttons. Zipper,” is all I can manage.
His hands find the back, unbuttoning it, each one deliberate, hurried, the pace of a man wanting and having an obstacle between him and his deepest desire. After the fifth one, I feel his frustration growing, “Turn around.”
I turn.
His mouth finds the curve of my neck as his hands work.
I feel the warmth of his breath, the touch of his lips on my skin, the light nips of his teeth against my neck.
I reach for the nearby side table, gripping the edge as my legs go weak, and I have to close my eyes as the sensation overwhelms me.
“Krasivaya,” he murmurs.
The dress loosens, then falls away, and he turns me back around, looking at me with that all-consuming look he gets.
“Victor,” I whisper.
“Zdes’. Ya zdes.”
He picks me up, kissing me as he walks us down the hallway to the bedroom. Setting me down on the bed, standing in front of me, I watch as he unbuttons his shirt, then loosens his tie before pulling them both off.
“Hands behind you,” he orders. His voice dropped low, that gravely voice doing something to me that no one else has ever done. “And keep them there.”
I put my hands behind me.
“Good girl,” he says.
What follows is educational at best, and overwhelming at worst. The complete attention of a man who is both hurried and relishing the moment all at once. He leans forward, hovering over me, his eyes dark with desire, and my breath catches.
“Ty moyo,” he says, his mouth moving to my throat once more. While his hands work to secure my hands with his tie. He pulls back enough to look at my face, kissing me harshly, before nipping my lip.
“Moya,” he says again.
“Yours,” I repeat in English.
He flips me onto the bed, face down, hands still secured behind my back, and I hear the metallic click of his belt buckle and the soft thump of his pants hitting the floor. I try to look over my shoulder, but his hand settles on the flat of my back, holding me in place.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time,” he says. “Stay.”
The prideful part of me wants to object, but the curious woman within, the one who wants to know him, to discover what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his meditations, is stronger. So I relax and stay. Swallowing hard in anticipation.
“Good,” he says.
His fingers run halfway down my back before he curls them and lets his nails dig into my skin. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make goosebumps rise across my arms. The sensation is delectable, and my toes curl involuntarily in response.
“Victor,” I murmur.
“Shhhh.”
My next protest falls quiet with a whimper when he smacks my bare ass, the unexpected impact causing me to jump. I like it, despite the surprise, and I bite my lip, waiting for what comes next.
He spends the next few minutes exploring my exposed skin, with his teeth, his lips, his fingers, his tongue. Each touch drives my need to a higher level. His teasing is both exciting and frustrating as he strokes me softly.
“You want more?” He asks in that low, gravely tone that makes me wetter than anything.
“Yes,” I say. My voice is full of need.
“Yes what?”
I swallow. “Yes, please.”
"Pozhaluysta," he corrects softly. The Russian word for please, said the way he says everything that matters — like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it. "Say it properly."
"Pozhaluysta," I say. The word comes out unsteady, which I have decided I am not embarrassed about.
"Khoroshaya devochka." Good girl. Low, unhurried, the specific warmth of a man who is deeply satisfied with how this is going.
His hands move, and I stop thinking in coherent sentences.
He is not rushed — he is never rushed, it is one of the most infuriating and devastating things about him.
He takes his time. He takes considerable time.
And I learn things about myself in the process that I did not know before, which is the specific kind of education that leaves you permanently changed.
“Victor—"
"Tikho," he says. Quiet.