I tsk. Her family is about to find out just how badly they fucked up.
21
ROSE
I’m dressed in white.
The room smells like perfume and hairspray and something sharp underneath it all, like nerves pretending to be celebration. The gown is expensive, of course. Silk that whispers when I move. Lace hand-stitched by someone who was paid not to think about who would be wearing it.
My mother hovers, checking details, issuing instructions like she’s overseeing a merger instead of a wedding. “We’re running behind. Sit still,” she instructs.
I do as I’m told.
Outwardly, I’m calm. Inwardly, I’m unraveling one careful thread at a time.
When no one is looking, I slip my hand beneath the bodice and feel for the small container tucked securely against my skin. It’s cool, solid. Reassuring in the bleakest way.
A fail-safe.
I learned about it weeks ago, late at night in a library I’ll never stop loving, from a book that spoke calmly about things that kill as easily as they heal. About beauty and danger sharing the same root.
My mother snaps her fingers. “Brooklyn.”
I flinch despite myself.
“That is not my name,” I say quietly.
She ignores it.
A mirror is pressed into my hands. Lipstick is applied, adjusted, perfected. I pretend to fuss over it, adding one last careful touch, steadying my breath as my fingers brush my mouth.
If this is how it ends, then it ends on my terms.
The music swells outside. My cue.
My mother takes my arm, her grip firm, proprietary. “Smile,” she murmurs. “Everyone is watching.”
“Good.”
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing.”
The doors open.
Light floods in, white and blinding, bouncing off glass and marble and faces turned expectant. Applause ripples through the space like a reflex. I walk because my legs know how, because stopping now would only invite hands on my back.
Anton waits at the altar.
He looks exactly as he always did—expensive, pleased with himself. Like a man who has never doubted that the world will bend eventually.
The officiant speaks. Words slide past me, hollow and ceremonial. I focus on breathing. On keeping my hands steady. On the weight of the small choice I’ve already made.
“Do you, Anton Ilyovich Pavlov, take Brooklyn Lark to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” Anton says.
“And do you, Brooklyn Lark, take Anton Ilyovich Pavlov as your lawfully wedded husband?”
