Men like my father survived by staying useful.
Girls like me survived by becoming wanted.
“I’m not nervous,” I say at last. “Dmitri and I have known each other forever.”
Katya smirks. “Knowing a man forever doesn’t mean you know what he’ll be like as a husband.”
“No one knows what any man will be like as a husband,” Irina says. “That’s why we drink.”
They laugh again. I smile because I’m supposed to. A waiter appears beside us in a black uniform. He refills our glasses without asking.
“Does he spoil you?” Lena asks.
“Of course,” I say.
It comes out easily. Too easily.
Dmitri does spoil me. Dresses, dinners, jewelry, weekends at hotels where the staff know not to ask questions. He likes me polished and quiet. He likes my hair done, my nails pale, my mouth soft, my opinions softer.
And I’ve never minded as much as I should. Being loved by Dmitri Volkov has always felt less like love and more like protection. Protection from whispers. From debt. From being my father’s daughter forever.
When he chose me, people stopped looking through me.
When he proposed, they started looking up.
That matters.
I wish it didn’t, but it does.
“Anya,” Irina says, dragging out my name. “You’re glowing.”
“That’s the facial,” I say.
“No,” Katya says. “That’s power.”
For a second, none of us laughs. Because that’s the truth, and truth is always a little dangerous at lunch.
I turn my hand again, admiring the diamond.
In two weeks, I will become Anya Volkova. The name sits in my mind like a crown.
My phone lights up on the table.
Dmitri.
My heart gives its usual small, foolish jump.
I hate that it still does that. Even after all these years. Even after every careless word, every late reply, every night he disappears and comes back smelling of smoke, expensive cologne, and something I never ask about.
I pick up the phone.
The message is short.Busy tonight. Don’t wait up.
I stare at it. Around me, the women keep talking.
I type back.Everything okay?
Three dots appear.
