“She’s so lucky,” the hair woman says to the makeup one, fingers twisting a strand around the barrel. “Marrying Konstantin Orlovsky. Imagine the life she’ll have.”
The makeup artist nods, dabbing highlighter on my cheekbones. “Private jets, estates everywhere, never lifting a finger. Most girls would kill for that.”
The mani-pedi girl, kneeling at my feet with a file, laughs softly. “And him. Look at that man. Tall, handsome, powerful. She gets to wake up to that every morning.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, watching them turn me into something polished and perfect, skin glowing, lips painted soft rose, eyes lined in smoky black that makes them look bigger, more innocent. My hands are in bowls of warm water, nails filed and painted deep red, toes the same. Everything the best, the softest, the most expensive. And it’s the worst day of my life. Every brush stroke, every spritz of perfume, every gentle tug on my hair feels like another lock clicking shut.
The hair woman tilts my head to pin a curl. “She’s quiet today. Nervous, maybe. First-time bride jitters.”
The makeup one smiles at me in the mirror. “Don’t worry, darling. Tonight will be magical. Konstantin’s been waiting for this for years.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s too tight, rage and panic choking me so hard I can barely breathe. They keep talking, voices floating around me like smoke.
“She’s got that Dragunov fire,” the mani girl says, massaging lotion into my calves. “But Konstantin will tame it. He always gets what he wants.”
“Better her than some outsider,” the hair woman adds, spraying shine serum. “At least she understands the world we live in. She’ll fit right in.”
They laugh, light and conspiratorial, like I’m not sitting right here listening to them discuss my future like it’s a done deal.
When they finally finish, they stand me up, robe falling open for a second before they wrap it tight again, and lead me to the dress waiting on a mannequin in the corner. White silk, floor-length, fitted through the bodice, modest neckline like he promised, long sleeves that end in lace cuffs. Beautiful. Expensive. A cage made of fabric.
The makeup artist steps back, tilting her head. “She looks like a princess.”
The hair woman smiles. “She is one. And tonight she becomes his queen.”
I stare at the dress, at my reflection beside it, perfect and polished and empty. My hands are shaking again, red nails catching the light.
They start helping me into it, lacing the back, smoothing the skirt, fastening the diamond choker that sits heavy on my throat like a collar.
And the whole time they keep talking over my head, voices light and bubbly like we’re all in on some fun secret, praising how lucky I am to be marrying Konstantin, how perfect this match is, how he’ll take such good care of me forever with his money andhis power and his big strong arms, and I don’t scream, don’t cry, don’t even flinch, I just stand there letting them lace me into the white silk like I’m being dressed for my own execution, mind racing a mile a minute, scanning every inch of the room, every hairpin they slide into my waves, every sharp edge on the vanity mirror, every little crystal bead on the choker that sits like a noose, hunting for something, anything I can use to turn this around and make them bleed instead. Because I’m not saying I do tonight, not to him, not ever, and if they think a dress this expensive, diamonds this heavy, and their stupid cheerful chatter will make me fold and play the happy bride, they don’t know me at all. I’m still the girl who shot him once, point-blank under the chin, watched his blood spray, and I’ll do it again in a heartbeat, even if the only weapon I can get my hands on is one of these fucking hairpins.
The women finish the last touches, stepping back to admire their work like I’m a cake they just iced, and I can’t take it anymore. My voice comes out low, shaking, but I force the words anyway. “Please. You have to help me. I don’t want this. He kidnapped me. He drugged me. If you just let me go, just open the door, I can get out before anyone notices.”
The hair woman pauses with the final spritz of shine serum, then laughs, light and pitying, like I told a bad joke. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re nervous. It’s normal.”
The makeup artist tilts her head, smiling. “Konstantin’s been so patient waiting for you. You’re lucky. Most girls dream of a man like him.”
I step closer, robe slipping off one shoulder, voice cracking. “I’m not dreaming. I’m begging. Please. Just help me.”
The mani-pedi girl straightens up, wiping her hands on a towel. “We’re here to make you beautiful for your wedding. That’s all.” She glances at the others, and they all share the same small, knowing smile. “You’ll thank us later.”
I reach for the hair woman’s arm. “Please. He’ll hurt people I love if I don’t do this. You don’t understand.”
She pulls away gently but firmly, patting my hand like I’m a child. “Everything’s ready. You look perfect.”
They turn as a group, gathering their bags and brushes, chatting about how the dress drapes just right, how the diamonds catch the light. No one looks back. The door clicks shut behind them, lock turning from the outside again, and the room goes silent except for my breathing, harsh and ragged.
I stand there in the white silk, bouquet already on the vanity waiting for me, red roses wrapped in white ribbon, thorns carefully clipped. The room feels smaller now, walls pressing in.
A little while later the door opens again. Two men this time, big, suited, guns visible on their hips. No words. One grabs my upper arm, not rough but not gentle, and steers me out. The other follows close behind, hand resting on his holster. They march me down a long hallway lined with old portraits, down a wide staircase, out a side door to a waiting black SUV. The engine’s already running.
They load me into the back seat, one on each side so I’m boxed in. The door slams. The driver doesn’t look at me in the rearview. We pull away from the estate, gravel crunching under the tires, and the world outside blurs into trees and gray sky.
They hand me the bouquet when we stop at a red light. I take it automatically, fingers numb around the stems. The thorns are gone but I squeeze anyway, hard enough to feel the pressure.
The SUV turns onto a narrow road that leads to a small stone church, old and beautiful in that cold, historic way. Guards at the entrance. More inside. The men pull me out, one on each elbow, and walk me up the steps like I’m a package being delivered.
Inside it’s dim, candles flickering along the aisle, a handful of people in the pews, family, witnesses, whoever Konstantin trusts to watch this farce. The organ starts, slow and solemn.
