Page 23 of Marrying the Savage

“You can burn it after photos.”

“No photos.”

“Fine. Memories.”

“Those are worse.”

She puts it over my head anyway.

For the first hour, I almost forget.

Almost.

Champagne helps. So does the music. So does Anya, who keeps pulling me into conversations that have nothing to do with seating charts or armed guards. We talk about bad dates, worse dresses, Katya’s ex-husband’s hair transplant, and the time Mila accidentally sent a nude to her dentist because both men were named Anton in her phone.

It’s ridiculous. It’s normal.

It’s everything I am about to lose.

At some point, the twins drag me to the middle of the room and make me dance. I do, badly at first, then less badly after the second glass of champagne. The music is filthy and loud. My hair sticks to my neck. My cheeks hurt from laughing.

For a few minutes, I’m not a treaty. I’m not Dmitri’s future wife. I’m not Sergei Antonov’s obedient niece.

I am just Sofia, twenty-four years old, in a black dress, dancing with women who know the world is terrible and have chosen glitter anyway.

Then Anya claps her hands.

“Oh no,” I say immediately.

She smiles. It’s a wicked smile. The kind of smile that has ruined many evenings and improved several others.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Anya.”

“Something small.”

“What kind of small?”

She doesn’t answer.

The music changes. The lights dim. The door opens, and a man walks in wearing a black mask, black trousers, and very little else.

The room explodes.

Katya screams. Mila drops her champagne. One of the twins actually climbs onto the sofa for a better view, which feels unnecessary because the man’s chest is approximately the size of a national monument and available for public study.

I stare at Anya.

She lifts both hands. “Before you judge me, remember that you said you wanted to do something wild.”

“I meant tequila.”

“You should have been more specific.”

The man moves into the center of the room like he has never once been embarrassed by his own body. Good for him, honestly. If I had that level of abdominal commitment, I too would enter rooms to applause.