"I don't know how to accept this," I admit quietly.
"You don't have to accept it all at once. Just... one day at a time. One moment at a time." She pulls into a parking lot—a bridal boutique with a "Private Appointment" sign in the window. "For now, let's find you a dress that makes you feel beautiful. Everything else can wait."
The bridal shop is empty except for us. The owner greets us with champagne I don't drink and leads us to a private room lined with mirrors.
"What style are you looking for?" she asks.
I have no idea. "White," I say stupidly.
Anya squeezes my hand. "We'll know it when we see it."
She wasn't kidding about trying on dresses. We go through at least fifteen. Each one is beautiful in its own way—ballgowns with layers of tulle, sleek columns of silk, vintage lace confections. But none of them feel right.
Some make me look too young. Others too severe. One makes me look like I'm playing dress-up in my mother's clothes.
"This isn't working," I say after the twelfth dress. I'm standing in front of the mirror in a strapless gown that's objectively gorgeous but feels all wrong. "Maybe we should just pick something and be done with it."
"No." Anya's voice is firm. "This is the one thing you get to choose, Vera. Your dress. We're not settling."
"But everything else is chosen for me."
"Exactly. So this matters." She studies me for a moment. "What do you want to feel like tomorrow? Not what you think you should feel like. What do you actually want?"
I stare at my reflection. What do I want?
"Beautiful," I admit quietly. "Even if it's all wrong. Even if I'm marrying him against my will. I want to feel beautiful when he sees me."
Anya's expression softens. "Then let's find something that makes you feel that way."
She disappears into the racks and returns with a dress I almost missed, tucked between two more dramatic gowns. It's simpler than the others. Fitted white satin with delicate lace sleeves. A low back. Clean lines that somehow feel both elegant and vulnerable.
"Try this one."
I slip into it, and the moment the owner fastens the last button, I know.
It fits perfectly. Hugs my curves without being tight. The lace sleeves are sheer enough to show skin but cover enough to feel modest. The low back dips just above my lower spine—bare skin that I know will drive Pyotr crazy.
I look at myself in the mirrors and barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks like a bride. A real bride. Not a girl being forced into marriage, but a woman walking toward her future with her head high.
"Oh," I breathe.
"Yeah," Anya says behind me. "That's the one."
I turn slightly, watching how the dress moves. How it catches the light. The train pools behind me like water.
"What do you think?" the owner asks.
I can't stop staring at myself. At this version of me that looks strong and soft at the same time. "It's perfect."
Anya comes to stand beside me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You look stunning. Pyotr is going to lose his mind when he sees you."
"Good." The word surprises me. Since when do I want him to lose his mind over me?
Since yesterday in the nursery. Since this morning in the library. Since I started realizing that my body's betrayal might not be betrayal at all.
We accessorize with a simple veil, delicate earrings. The owner boxes everything carefully while I change back into my regular clothes. But I can still feel the dress on my skin, the way it made me look.
