Page 122 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’ve been fed, watched, and addressed like someone’s terrifying aunt.”

His mouth moves once. “Good.”

“That’s your answer?”

“That means the house understands.”

I push myself up on one elbow. “Understands what?”

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand settling near my knee. He doesn’t touch me until I look at his hand. Then he does.

“By tonight, there is no more confusion.”

I hold his gaze. “You could say marriage.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

His fingers tighten once over the blanket. “Marriage is the legal word. What happens tonight carries more meaning.”

“Do I get a choice?” I ask after a heartbeat.

His face changes, and for once, he looks almost offended. “Yes.” The answer comes fast enough to land.

He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a small velvet box, and sets it beside my hand. “You always had one. Men tried to bury it under paper. I’m putting it where they can see it.”

My throat tightens.

Two rings sit inside the box. His is plain, heavy, dark gold. Mine is old, warm gold with a deep red stone set flush, not high enough to catch on anything.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“It was my mother’s,” he says.

I look up. He holds my eyes, and my fingers close around the box.

The dress comes around four, and Maksim has already left again. Lidiya carries it wrapped in cream tissue, holding it like a state document. Behind her comes a woman with a makeup case, then another with pins, combs, and the brisk hands of someone used to getting rich women ready under pressure.

Mrs. Wentworth supervises the bath. The water is warm and smells faintly of soap, and by the time I step out, the bedroom has been cleared, towels laid out, and the dress opened on the bed.

They dress me there. The gown is deep ivory, fitted through the shoulders and loose below the ribs so I can breathe. It has long sleeves, no sparkle, and no wasted softness, and the fabric falls cleanly over my stomach without hiding it completely.

My hair is drawn back from my face and twisted into a knot at the base of my neck. Two smooth sections are pinned in place, and nothing is left loose enough for nerves or hands to ruin.

The makeup woman keeps my face almost bare. Brows, a little color on my mouth, enough to look alive and unafraid. When I stand before the mirror, I recognize myself, and for a second, no one speaks. The ivory sets off my skin, the pinned hair leaves my neck bare, and the red stone on my hand looks darker against the dress. Even Mrs. Wentworth goes still before she reaches for the structured ivory cape and settles it across my shoulders.

At five, Maksim comes for me, and he stops at the threshold.

Everyone stills around him. Mrs. Wentworth steps back, Lidiya looks down at once, and the makeup woman closes her case without a sound. Maksim looks at me for a long moment. His gaze moves over the dress, the bandage on my forearm, the line of my stomach, and finally, my face.

“Beautiful,” he says.

The word is plain, and that makes it harder to hold my face steady.

I lift my chin. “You clean up well.”