The tears I’d tried to hold at bay poured down my cheeks. I simply stared at the picture, as Em attempted to get my face patted dry, drawing strength from the faces of the women who had raised me, loved me, nurtured me, and grown up with me. Then, the strains of the piano began and each of them hugged me and left me with my father to wait.
In the dim light of the vestibule, the soft rustle of the wedding dress—the beautiful, cream confection that mocked the ugliness of my inner turmoil—swirled around my legs as I paced back and forth. My father stood watching me, ready to be the strength I needed right now. I stopped and stared at the double doors leading to the sanctuary, thinking about what would unfold when I crossed that threshold. Targen was waiting for me behind those doors, playing every bit the part of a devoted, unbothered groom, while my heart and mind were about to explode with anxiety.
“Theory, if you’re not sure—” Daddy began, trying to ease the tension palpable in the small room.
I knew what he was about to say, knew he would take me away from here, no questions asked. But the truth was, his words offered me no comfort; they only made me more pissed at this situation.
“Why didn’t y’all tell me he came to see y’all?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, edged with anger. I couldn’t reconcile my feelings—furious at my situation, frustrated with my family’s vulnerability, futile as the taste of powerlessness filled my throat. If I married Targen, I was giving up my freedom, my hard-won peace for the sake of family. It felt like the most unfair deal ever, like I was trading my soul for safety.
Daddy placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, grounding me. “I thought you would want this. Even your mama agreed. And you obviously told him yes. If you walk out of here right now, I’ll stand right beside you, defend your choice. But don’t let a case of cold feet stop you.”
I felt my mouth twist into a grimace. They thought it was all nerves, that I was battling some eleventh-hour reluctance. Targen had convinced them that despite what I said about forgetting him, he was my first choice. Truth was, Targen’s family was my last hope, a shield against the potentialviolence that surrounded us. Knowing that didn't make this moment any easier.
“It’s just... I feel like I don’t know him,” I whispered, a tremor in my voice.
Daddy engulfed me in a warm hug. His embrace usually made me feel safe. Nothing could right now.
“Y’all will get to know each other better, baby. Anyway, sometimes you just know. And that man knows. I think you do, too. Trust the process,” he murmured.
I wanted to scream, to tell him this wasn’t fair, that marriage shouldn’t feel like a transaction. But even with tears burning in my eyes, I swallowed back my fear. I wasn’t about to cry any more on my wedding day—even though my heart was still struggling against the idea of leaving my old life behind.
When the doors creaked open, a blast of cool air mixed with the smell of incense and the soft sound of the wedding march echoed through the small church. My eyes found Targen, and for all his gentleness toward me, there was steel in his gaze. I was caught in the tumult of my emotions, my heart pounding as I took tentative steps toward him, each one slowed by the weight of my reluctance.
At the end of the aisle, I hesitated, gripping Daddy's arm like a lifeline.I can’t do this, I thought, my throat tight.
He glanced down at me, his expression patient, waiting. He was ready for whatever I wanted to do. With a final deep breath, I let the pull of duty force me to step away from him and toward Targen. It felt like surrender, echoing my inner conflict.I reached Targen and took his hand, my palm sweating against his cool grip.
We exchanged vows in the rich, ancient cadence of the Russian Orthodox ceremony, but my grandmother’s Baptist pastor offered a blessing, praying for a union shaped by faith and love. If only… I looked at Targen, then. I could almost pretend that the pastor’s sentiment was reflected in the warm gray of his eyes.
And then there was my cousin, Hyacinth, no doubt a last-minute addition. She sang the Lord’s Prayer, and it glided over the room in her gorgeous, soothing voice, bringing a little peace into my heart. I moved through the ceremony like a puppet, with Targen pulling my strings while I did my best to keep my heart sealed off.
After the wedding, I rode in silence with my new husband to some beautifully decorated hall for an unexpected reception. He held my hand. I didn’t fight; right now, it felt like no fight was left in me.
When it came time to dance with my father, I smiled on the outside, despite the storm brewing within. I danced with my sister and cousins, laughing and twisting and twirling, careful not to let the world see the cracks in the façade of this marriage. The only time I shed a tear was when the women in my family who were also my Sorors, surrounded me to sing our Sweetheart Song.
And then, it was time to dance with my husband. As our dance began, he pulled me close, his breath warm against my ear.
“I promise to take care of you,” he whispered, each word wrapped in sincerity. “I’m gon’ love you so good,milaya, I swear it. I’ll give you the family you want, the life you dreamed of.Morethan you dreamed of, Theory Grace.”
With each promise, the walls I had erected began to shake. How could I resist the soft words of a vow made just for me? I tried, though, determined to remain icy against this man who was now my husband.
After the long night of celebration, we made our way back to the car, with a silent Mikhail and an excited Juvie who bounced as he held the door open for us. I slid into the backseat, my heart and mind still spinning. Sightlessly, I stared out the window.
“Just trust me, Theory,” Targen said, the determination in his voice steadying me, even as doubts wove through my mind. “Just give us a chance.”
I glanced at him, a reluctant warmth blossoming inside me. Somehow, I knew this ride would lead us to a destination I wasn’t expecting.
(Saturday,June 14 — later that night)
The ride back to the compound was silent. Even Juvie was uncharacteristically quiet. Security lights illuminated the long private road in a soft gold, revealing the wrought-iron gates, manicured hedges, and the beautiful landscaping that made you forget there were men with rifles posted behind those pretty ass trees. My family liked their beauty with a side of violence. So did I, now that I had the most precious thing in the world to protect. The quiet was a little fake, though. I was riding with a storm in this backseat.
Theory didn’t speak, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet. Nah,moya milayawas holding herself together with nothing but pride and spite. She sat with her hands folded in her lap likeshe was trying to look unbothered, even when she was seething inside. The veiled hat was gone. Her hair fell in soft spirals around her shoulders, and her makeup had held up through a whole wedding, a whole reception, a whole day she didn’t ask for. She smiled, laughed, danced. She even sang with her Sorors.
And she still looked like she might fall apart if somebody breathed too hard near her.
The car slowed in front of the house. My house for her. This was ours, even if she wasn’t ready to call it that. Nobody would ever call it a “starter home.” It was a mini-mansion, period. It wasn’t the big Sidorov mansion, but it was just as impressive. White stone façade, tall, black-framed windows, a covered entry with columns, greenery almost too perfect to be real. There was a four-car garage so that there was room for that blue G-Wagon and anything else she wanted.
The moment we stepped through the door, cool air wrapped around us. Everything in here was about warm light and quiet luxury. After a year spent in a cramped cell, I appreciated the cream walls, dark hardwood, high ceilings with modern chandeliers, and custom art. Nothing was loud, but it all said money. The color scheme was soft neutrals and deep blues because my mama had insisted that I needed “calm and feminine touches,” and Theory loved blue. I’d already seen the blue accents in the bigger items—navy velvet chairs in the sitting room, pale blue runner in the hall, framed print of Emancipation’s pretty, blue river on the wall to show her that I hadn’t forgotten where she came from.
