I slip on the same ugly dress I wore two days ago. Because all my clothes are packed in boxes. It’s been cleaned, but it’s still an annoyance.
I can’t believe this weekend I’ll be married.
But I also can’t believe this weekend I’ll be free from Viktor.
Granted, it’ll only be so another man can control me. But better the beast I don’t know, right?
I pick up Dominic’s letter again and just hold it. I’ve read it so many times that I have every word memorized by now.
I’ve done my best to not let myself believe it’s true, but I can’t squash all my hope.
Because what if it is? What if this is really my key to freedom?
If this man is bearable, if what he says is true, then I’ll abandon Viktor and live a happy life.
Granted, I’m not sure I’ll be reporting anything back to him. He doesn’t deserve it.
But what if he retaliates? What if he comes after me?
I need to make Dominic like me enough, or at least be protective enough of his wife, that he won’t let Viktor hurt me.
A man like him has to care enough about his wife, right? Even if it’s just the image of her.
Vova jumps into my lap, and I pet him. He knows something’s changing. I haven’t packed his things yet, but he knows.
I don’t think he wants to move. But he doesn’t realize anywhere is better than this tacky prison.
He’s already torn into multiple cardboard boxes. So many that we had to start packing in plastic ones.
He meows as I scratch him behind the ear.
“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.” I’m trying to convince myself just as much as him.
A knock at the door interrupts us, but Vova doesn’t fly out of my arms, so I know it’s not Viktor.
Yelena walks in before I can answer.
“Get up, girl. You have your final fitting!” She rushes around me, trying to get me up off the floor.
Right, the fitting. For the world’s ugliest wedding dress.
I didn’t get to pick it.
I didn’t get to pick anything.
Hell, I don’t know a single detail about the wedding.
But knowing Viktor, it’ll be tacky, gaudy, and miserable. Just like my life with him.
The seamstress enters with a bundle of white tulle in her arms. I start undressing, knowing the assignment.
Once the monstrosity is on, I look in the mirror and have to stifle a gag. Out of all the hideous dresses Viktor has picked out for me, this by faris the worst.
If I got to pick a wedding dress, it’d be sleek. Form fitting. Classic white, no lace. It may have a modest neckline but a low back.
It certainly wouldn’t be a ballgown with three bows. Three! It wouldn’t be covered in the ugliest lace pattern. Nor would it look like it’s fit for the eighteenth century.
If I didn’t know Viktor’s ego and his obsession with his Bratva Princess’s image, I’d think he did it on purpose. That he chose this eyesore as some sort of humiliation ritual for me.
