In fact, nothing about these people feels forced or disingenuous. Something I’m not familiar with in my life in Russia… or frankly, the competitive world of performing arts,where there are few spots to fill and too many people vying for them.
Juliet kisses both my cheeks, leaving a faint shimmer of highlighter on my skin. “You did beautifully,” she murmurs. “I’ll make sure that my crew is tightening up here, and then I’ll meet you down at the reception. My assistant, Shawnie, will be the one running around with a headset if you need anything. Now go eat, drink, and let everyone fuss over you. That’s your only job tonight.”
My only job.
It feels strange to have one that doesn’t involve survival.
Oakley’s is noisy even with the door closed.
I can hear it from the street—the bass line of whatever song is currently playing, the sound of voices rising and falling in waves, the occasional hoot of laughter that cuts through the music of our guests who arrived before us.
The busy Seattle nightlife buzzes around us. Cars glide past, headlights sweeping over the sidewalk. Somewhere down the block, a siren wails and then fades. It smells like rain on concrete and coffee from the shop on the corner, and something fried and comforting drifting out through the cracks around Oakley’s door.
Scottie pushes the door open with his other hand, because he still hasn’t released mine. Not once. Not since the moment we said I do.
He even hugged people one-armed, awkward but determined, just so he wouldn’t let me go.The realization hits me that he’s been grounding me on purpose. Holding me close so I don’t feel like an outsider. He’s been anchoring me, wordlessly remindingme that I’m not alone… that we’re connected now in a way I’ve never been with anyone.
He ushers me in to walk in front of him, holding the door open for me as I realize he always does. Chivalry is not dead in this man.
Part of me wants to tell him not to waste it on me. We’re just both using each other to spoil our parents' plans to guilt us into marrying other people. He should save all that charm and polite manners for a woman he’ll spend a real future with, but I can’t work up the words to say it because my heart practically vibrates every time he does it. To feel that important to someone. To have someone put that much care into my well-being, besides bodyguards who have sworn to protect me, and my brother, who swore to my mother before she passed that he would.
Scottie and I don’t share DNA. He has no guilt from a dying mother's wishes, and he isn’t being paid to take a bullet for me like the men who protect the Popovich name in Moscow. He’s doing it because he wants to.
Warmth rushes out to meet us as we step fully into the bar, and a cheer goes up.
It’s not polite to clap. It’s not the sort of controlled applause I grew up hearing, where people clap because it’s expected and stop in the same second because someone decided they should.
This is messy and overlapping and genuine.
Light, too—soft and golden, spilling over dark wood tables and the glossy sheen of the bar top, bouncing off the glass shelves lined with bottles. Juliet has done something extraordinary here. Matching white tablecloths, elegance and delicate flowers, with a rustic dive bar feel around us. Like the clashing of two worlds… like the clashing of Scottie and me.
On some of the tables, tiny candle flames flickering inside faceted glass holders, small arrangements of white tulips and pale blush orchids brightening up every surface.
Fairy lights zigzag along the rafters, tangled artfully around old team banners and framed jerseys. Someone has cleared space in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor, the scuffed wood polished to a soft shine. The pool tables were moved to the side and lined with food for the guests. A small speaker setup plays a song I vaguely recognize from American radio, upbeat and happy and unapologetically sentimental.
“Whoa,” Scottie breathes beside me. “She really went all in.”
“She always does,” a woman says from somewhere behind us. I glance back to find a woman with a headset—Shawnie.
We take a few more steps further into the venue, Scottie’s hand on the low of my back is to remind me that he’s still here with me.
There’s one thing I notice looking at all the decorations. “They didn’t use a single rose,” I say, completely floored since roses are one of the most common flowers used in arrangements.
Scottie leans towards me. “I told Juliet no roses. Luka told me that you hate them. It was my only request.”
I stare over at him, almost in shock. How could he remember such a small detail? Something my brother must have told him before we even met. It shouldn’t mean that much to me, but it does. It tells me that Scottie listens.
“Woooo!” Peyton practically shrieks, launching herself off a barstool. “They’re married! Did youseethat kiss?”
“Subtle,” Cammy says, rolling her eyes, but she’s grinning too, her gaze soft when it lands on me.
Peyton barrels into me with carefully moderated force, arms sliding around my shoulders without asking permission, but somehow it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels good to have people this happy for me, even if they all know it’s a sham marriage.
“And this ring?” she gasps, grabbing my left hand without waiting for an answer. Cammy runs over too, and then Vivi.“Shut up. Shut all the way up. Three and a half carats? Easton, are you kidding with this?”
“It’s stunning,” Vivi says, watching Peyton rotate my hand to make the diamond sparkle.
Scottie rubs a soft circle with his hand on my back as if to soothe me. As if he knows this amount of attention is actually a little overwhelming . But in a good way. It’s just been a long time since I’ve had girlfriends… besides Irina, who Luka very generously paid to fly her out for my wedding and is flying her back out in a couple of hours so that she can get back for a morning audition in New York.
