I want to scream at him. Want to claw at his face, make him hurt the way I’m hurting.
Instead, exhaustion overwhelms me. The adrenaline that’s been sustaining me evaporates all at once, leaving nothing but bone-deep fatigue.
I can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep fighting, can’t keep running. Can’t maintain the fiction that I have any control over what happens next.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
Strong arms lift me from the car. I should fight. Should maintain some dignity.
I don’t have any left.
Dimitri carries me back to the penthouse, back to the guest room, lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness.
“Sleep,” he says. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
Darkness pulls at the edges of my vision, shock and exhaustion and defeat conspiring to drag me under.
I let it.
***
I wake to soft voices and unfamiliar hands.
My eyes open slowly, confusion and residual fear making everything fuzzy. The room is brighter than before, morning light streaming through windows I don’t remember being uncovered.
Women move around me—three of them, speaking quietly in Russian. They notice me stirring and switch to accented English.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rudenko. Time to prepare.”
Mrs. Rudenko. The words don’t process immediately.
Then I look down. I’m wearing white.
Not the soft pants and sweater from last night. A wedding dress, simple, elegant, expensive. It fits perfectly, hugging my curves in ways that suggest it was tailored specifically for my body.
Panic explodes fresh and immediate. I try to sit up, but hands press gently on my shoulders.
“Please, Mrs. Rudenko. We must do your hair.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“Mr. Rudenko said you would be confused. That the stress of recent events might make you forgetful.” The woman’s smile is kind but firm. “Everything is arranged. The ceremony begins in one hour.”
“No. No, this is insane. I’m not marrying him. I need to talk to him now.”
“He will see you at the ceremony. Now please, we must finish.”
I’m too weak to fight them. Too exhausted from last night’s failed escape, too overwhelmed by waking up in a wedding dress I don’t remember putting on.
Did they drug me? Is that how I ended up dressed like this without waking?
The women work efficiently fixing my hair, applying makeup I don’t want, adjusting the dress until it sits perfectly. I watch in the mirror like I’m observing someone else’s life.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.
Except it is.
