Page 20 of Marrying the Savage

Anya is quiet.

That’s not the whole truth, and we both know it. But it’s enough.

Finally, she sighs. “I’ll call you back.”

She hangs up before I can thank her.

For the next hour, I pretend to address the acceptable envelopes. I write names in careful script, because if I have learned anything from this family, it’s that rebellion goes down easier when dressed beautifully.

A cousin.

An aunt by marriage.

Two women whose faces I vaguely recognize.

Anya, because no list approved by a Sokolov man gets to decide who loves me.

By the time my phone buzzes, my hand is stiff and my mood has soured into something bright and reckless.

Anya has sent only one message. Just an address in an old district of Moscow, attached to a building I recognize by reputation if not by sight.

Volodin House.

My throat goes dry, and for one second, the whole idea stops being funny.

Damir Volodin is no longer just a name that upsets Dmitri. He’s an actual man with an actual address, and I’m holding an actual invitation to my wedding, which I am apparently about to send to the most dangerous person my uncle knows.

I should stop. I should tear the envelope in half and flush the pieces.

I should do literally anything else.

Instead, I pull one of the blank envelopes toward me. My pen hovers.

Then I write: Mr. Damir Volodin

The ink dries slowly.

His name looks obscene on the cream paper. Not because it’s ugly, but because it belongs there too well.

I add the address beneath it, each letter careful, elegant, perfectly legible. Nothing extra. No note. No joke. No explanation. Just the invitation.

Just the one thing my uncle forbade.

When I’m done, I sit back and stare at it. My heart beats too quickly. This is stupid. This is childish. This is dangerous.

This is the first decision about my wedding that has belonged entirely to me.

A knock sounds at my door, and I almost jump out of my skin.

“Miss Antonova?” one of Polina’s assistants calls. “The courier is collecting your envelopes.”

I look at Damir’s name. For one final second, I give myself the chance to be sensible.

Then I stand, gather the envelopes, and open the door.

The assistant smiles politely. “Are these ready?”

I hand her the stack. Damir Volodin’s invitation rests in the middle, hidden between a cousin and a woman named Irina who once told me my hips were “traditional.”