Chapter 6
PENELOPE
Today is my wedding day to Dmitri Volkov.
I stand in the bridal preparation room while they dress me, a silent figure at the center of a ritual I never chose. The room feels less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded tomb.
Gold leaf crawled up the walls in ornate patterns meant to dazzle, not comfort. Chandeliers dripped crystal tears from the ceiling, scattering light that felt cold rather than celebratory. Everything gleamed.
Four women surround me—bridesmaids, I’m told—strangers with polite smiles that never reach their eyes.
They moved with practiced precision—hands swift, efficient, impersonal—as they laced the corset down my back, tugging harder than necessary, fingers pinching skin as though punishing it.
Another pinned the veil into my hair with sharp, impatient jabs. Powder was brushed across my cheeks without care, as if they were dusting furniture rather than a bride.
The dress was exquisite.
Ivory silk chiffon flowed over me like water, hand-embroidered with delicate silver thread that caught the light like frost.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves skimmed my arms, soft and elegant, while the train pooled at my feet like spilled moonlight.
It was a masterpiece—old money craftsmanship, the kind of gown fashion houses begged to display.
The kind Seraphina would have worn like a crown.
But the women dressing me wore their contempt openly.
Their eyes flicked over my body—lingering too long at my hips, my stomach, my breasts—with thinly veiled disdain.
One woman pursed her lips as she pulled the fabric tighter, as if trying to force me into a silhouette the dress had never been designed for.
Another clicked her tongue sharply when the zipper snagged for a brief second, sighing as though my body had personally insulted her.
“Dio mio,” one muttered under her breath in Italian.
“La straniera grassa.”
The fat foreigner.
I didn’t flinch.
I kept my chin lifted, spine straight, shoulders back—letting their words slide over me like rain against stone.
Five years ago, those whispers would have shattered me. Five years ago, I would have apologized for taking up space.
But five years ago, I hadn’t rebuilt myself in Ruslan Baranov’s gym.
I hadn’t carved muscle beneath curves I refused to starve away. I hadn’t learned how it felt to lift twice my own weight, to throw a man twice my size to the mat, to trust my body again.
I was strong now.
Their cruelty still stung—but it no longer defined me.
When they finally stepped back, one of them folded her arms and declared flatly, “Presentabile.”
Presentable.
As if I were an object cleared for use.
