Page 30 of Betrayal and Vows

The dress was chosen by my father and signed off by Vadim Orlov himself. Apparently, it “symbolizes purity and tradition.”

It symbolizes imprisonment.

But I smile and nod like a good little fiancée while a stranger adjusts the hem of a dress I didn’t choose for a wedding I didn’t ask for to a man I do not love. Or like.

Welcome to my fairy tale.

“Suck it in!” The seamstress jerks hard on the cords of the corset.

“Ouch!”

I nearly puke as she attempts to squeeze the life out of me.

“No more pasta,” she mutters.

My mouth drops open. How dare she!

“If the dress wasn’t so hideous?—”

“Stop. Talking.”

She jerks hard again and I’m certain my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head.

I try to lift my arms but the dress restricts my movement. How do they expect me to walk down the aisle if I can’t breathe?

“Mother, please.”

My appeal to her over the top of the seamstress’s head does nothing. She’s busy on her phone.

“It’s beautiful."

“Mamochka.”

My attempt to call her mommy and appeal to her tender side fails miserably.

“Lena, just wear the dress. It’s two hours. Then you’ll put on the other dress for the party. Your husband?—”

“Not my husband,” I cut in.

“Your future husband and father have chosen this dress for you.”

I roll my eyes. “They should wear it.”

“Lena.”

“I should get to choose what they wear.”

My mother ignores me. I’ve been complaining for hours and I’m getting nowhere.

My mother is still glued to her phone, frantically typing messages with a frown.

“You’re going to get wrinkles,” I warn her.

“This is such a mess.”

"What now?" I ask.

"The guest list changed again." She doesn't look up from her screen. "Vadim wants to add another fifty people."