Anya looks past me toward him. “Is he always like this?”
“Worse when encouraged.”
“I heard that,” Alexei says.
“You were meant to.”
For the first time that morning, Anya almost smiles. It’s gone quickly, but I see it.
We return inside through the east doors, and the house feels different with her in it.
That irritates me. Houses don’t change because a woman walks through them wearing your ring. And yet, as Anya steps into the hall, I see the place through her eyes. The dark floors. The portraits. The silence. The staff waiting at a careful distance. The weight of a house built by men who didn’t know how to make anything feel safe.
She takes it all in. Then she lifts her chin and keeps walking.
My wife.
We make it halfway across the main hall before I see the woman waiting near the stairs.
I stop.
Anya notices immediately.
So does Alexei.
The woman turns from the portrait she has been examining and smiles as if she has been invited. She’s in her early sixties, tall,elegant, dressed in dark green with pearls at her throat and silver in her black hair. She has the Volkov eyes, unfortunately. Cold when amused, colder when offended.
My aunt, Larisa Vasilova. My mother’s older sister.
She looks from me to Anya, then down to the ring on Anya’s hand. “Well,” she says, one brow lifting. “Looks like I didn’t make the cut for the wedding.”
Alexei mutters, “Oh, this is going to be good.”
I ignore him.
“Aunt Larisa,” I say.
“Yaromir.”
Her gaze returns to Anya, sharp and assessing. Not cruel. Not warm either. “So, this is the bride.”
Anya stands beside me, still in her simple ivory dress, still pale from the ceremony, still carrying more pride than rest. I wait to see if she will shrink under Larisa’s inspection.
She does not.
She steps forward by half a pace and offers her hand. “Anya Volkova.”
Larisa’s expression changes. Just a fraction.
Then she takes Anya’s hand. “Good,” she says. “At least one of you has manners.”
Lunch is served in the smaller dining room because Larisa refuses to eat in the formal one.
“That room was designed by men who thought discomfort proved wealth,” she says, taking the chair at the head of the table as if she has lived in my house for years.
I let her have it.
Anya notices.
