Page 22 of Marrying the Savage

“That sounds like something that will get us killed.” I glance at the stylists, who are pretending very hard not to listen. “Who’s coming?”

“Me, Katya, Mila, the twins, and two girls from your acceptable list so your uncle can’t say I kidnapped you into moral ruin.”

“You are kidnapping me into moral ruin.”

“Yes, but with witnesses from respected families.”

That makes me smile despite myself.

God, I need tonight.

Not because I want to drink until I forget my name, though that does hold some appeal. Not because I want to dance on tables, though there is at least a thirty percent chance of that happening if someone plays the right song. I need tonight because in two days, I will walk into a church as Sofia Antonova and come out as Sofia Sokolova.

A new name. A new house.

A new cage.

Everyone keeps calling it the beginning of my life, but it feels like the last open door closing.

So yes. I want a party.

I want music loud enough to drown out Dmitri’s voice. I want lipstick too red for bridal approval. I want to wear something that was not selected to make me look innocent, useful, or easy to display. I want one night where nobody discusses my future as if I’m not sitting there listening.

I want to do something wild.

Not stupid.

Well. Maybe a little stupid.

By nine, Anya has smuggled me out with the confidence of a woman who has spent half her life disappointing powerful men and surviving anyway. She arrives in a black car, wearing a red dress that looks painted on and an expression that tells the guards she has absolutely no intention of explaining herself.

The guard at the front door looks at me, then at her. “Miss Antonova,” he says carefully, “your uncle didn’t mention⁠—”

“My uncle does not mention many things,” I say, walking past him. “That is one of his charms.”

Anya hooks her arm through mine before anyone can stop us. “You look like trouble,” she says.

I look down at my dress. It’s black, short, sleeveless, and tight enough that my stylist would need medical attention if she saw it. My hair is down. My mouth is painted dark red. My heels are high enough to qualify as a personal risk.

“I look like a woman having a minor breakdown.”

“Same thing, better lighting.”

The club is tucked beneath a restaurant owned by someone connected to someone connected to someone my uncle has probably threatened over dinner. It’s private, expensive, and full of women who know better than to post pictures without permission. The walls are dark blue velvet, the lighting low and golden, the music loud enough to vibrate beneath my skin.

For the first time in days, nobody is staring at me like a bride.

They stare like I am a woman.

I nearly cry from gratitude.

Anya has booked a private room upstairs with a curved sofa, a small bar, and a balcony overlooking the dance floor below. Katya and Mila are already there, along with the twins, who are both named something elegant and behave like escaped fireworks. There are balloons, obscene cupcakes, champagne on ice, and a sash draped over the sofa that reads BRIDE TO BE in rhinestones.

I stare at it. “No.”

Anya picks it up. “Yes.”

“I will burn it.”