"He looks like a breathing iceberg," Isabella whispered in my ear, her breath warm against my earlobe, carrying the scent of her expensive perfume.
I jolted back to reality, realizing I'd been staring at the man at the altar far too long.
The organ's solemn notes echoed through the towering dome of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, creating an almost sacred harmony with the silent snow drifting outside on this peaceful Christmas Eve. Yet my heart felt as though an invisible hand was squeezing it tight, beating frantically and heavily.
This dark green velvet gown was the result of Mother Sofia's entire afternoon of careful selection. She had knelt before me, smoothing every wrinkle in the skirt like a devout believer.
"Perfect! Noelle. I knew it. The dark green makes your skin look porcelain-white while maintaining dignity. A man of Kholod's stature will certainly appreciate this understated elegance."
She looked up at me, studying my face with an almost fevered gleam in her eyes. As she spoke, her well-manicured hands pressed firmly against an imperceptible wrinkle in my dress.
In the mirror, I looked like a stranger wrapped in finery. The velvet shimmered under the lights, its body-hugging cut creating unfamiliar curves—this dress was beautiful like an exquisite cage.
"Mother," I finally spoke, my voice hoarse, "why do you keep mentioning Kholod? It's his wedding today, not mine."
I couldn't understand why, ever since learning about this wedding, Kholod's name had become her gospel. From hairstyle to accessories, every requirement she had for me was judged by the ultimate standard of "Mr. Kholod will like this."
Mother stood without answering my question. Moving behind me, she began arranging loose strands at the back of my head, her fingertips cold and unyielding.
"What do you know? Noelle, do you think this is just some ordinary wedding? This is an opportunity! A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"
"Opportunity?" I met her gaze in the mirror. "To catch some wealthy man?"
She let out a sharp laugh, as if she'd heard the world's greatest joke. She spun me around, gripping my shoulders tightly, forcing me to look directly at her. "Noelle Bellucci, can you be realistic for once? Look at this house! Look at that café downstairs with nothing but flies for customers! Look at me bowing and scraping to debt collectors on the phone every day!"
Her voice began to tremble, deep exhaustion and despair showing through her flawless makeup. "Your father left us more than just the Bellucci name—he left us a complete disaster! Those people who used to grovel before us are now waiting to watch us fall, waiting to devour us alive! The money we owe—we could sell the house twice and it wouldn't cover our debts!"
I fell silent. These words cut like dull blades, repeatedly slicing through nerves already numb. This was our reality—a sinking quagmire I was powerless to change.
"So," I asked quietly, "I should be packaged like merchandise and sent to a party to be sold to the highest bidder?"
"What else?!" Mother's voice shot up. "Keep clinging to thoseunrealistic photo albums and blogs, daydreaming about traveling the world? Noelle, dreams don't fill stomachs! They don't pay debts!"
She took a deep breath, seeming to summon every ounce of strength to calm herself. She adjusted my collar again, her tone softer but filled with suffocating desperation.
"Listen, sweetheart. Today, every elite in Philadelphia will be there—Kholod's friends, his business partners, all men at the pinnacle of power. You don't need to do anything except be seen." She cupped my face as if admiring a work of art.
"Look at you, Noelle. How beautiful you are! Do you know how much I've invested in cultivating you? Just appear there, flash an appropriate smile, and someone will notice you. That will be our only lifeline."
"So you're simply using his wedding to find me a buyer."
Mother's face went ashen, her expression deeply conflicted. She lowered her head and fastened a delicate diamond necklace around my neck. The cold touch made me shudder.
"Noelle," she finally said, her voice weary and raspy, "don't blame me."
"Darling, relax." Isabella gently patted my hand, drawing me from the memory. Her voice carried undisguised envy. "Look, that's Kholod—a name everyone on the East Coast knows. Wealth, power... everything he possesses is legendary. I wonder which fortunate woman could make him willing to enter marriage."
A wave of bitterness swept through me. I quickly suppressed this unnecessary emotion, telling myself it had nothing to do with me.
"Honestly, Noelle, I truly feel sorry for you. With your pretty face, if you'd come to your senses earlier, you might be the one standing at that altar."
"Don't talk nonsense." I lowered my eyes. "The Morozov family would be delighted to see us in debt."
I pulled out my phone from my purse and browsed my travel social media account.
I retrieved my phone and scrolled through that carefully maintained travel account—Norway's fjords, Tuscan sunshine, bustlingSoutheast Asian markets. These photos were all collected from others' videos and documentaries, constructing a dream completely unrelated to the Bellucci family's decline and Mother's increasingly urgent pressure.
I sighed silently and stuffed the phone back into my pocket, as if this could hide away that freedom-seeking part of myself as well.
