Page 58 of Ruthless Vow
I take my hand away and turn from the mirror, forcing myself to walk the length of the room even though the carpet is soft and the air is cold and my stomach keeps trying to betray me. I count the steps from the bed to the door. I count the steps from the sitting area to the bathroom. I count the seconds between patrol passes outside the window. I’ve been doing this since the moment I woke up here. It’s not for any hope of escape, just habit, I guess.
I hear movement in the hallway a while later. It isn’t one set of footsteps. It’s multiple people moving in a coordinated way, and the sound pulls my attention immediately. They stop outside my door. The lock disengages. Voices murmur low. Then the door opens.
Two guards enter first, scanning like they expect me to be hiding with a weapon, ready to spring out at them. Behind them comes Dahlia and two other women carrying garment bags. They don’t look at me. They move with purpose, like I’m an inconvenience in the path of their job.
The sight of the white garment bag makes me sick, so hard I have to breathe through it in shallow pulls until the nausea settles. I refuse to go to my knees. I refuse to give anyone in this room the satisfaction of seeing me bend.
“I thought we were going out to the fitting,” I say to Dahlia.
Her frown deepens. “Change of plans,” she says in a fake cheery tone. “Mr. Grinkov thought it would be best if the fitting came to you. In light of your delicate condition.”
She smiles brightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s had a word with her, I imagine. He saw our conversation on his screen and decided that I’m not trustworthy. He’s right.
“Mr. Grinkov would like you to shower and wash your hair,” she says carefully. “Once you’re ready, a glam team will do your hair and makeup to make sure it’s up to your standards for the big day.”
I know it’s no use arguing with her. There are too many guns in this room and too many innocent people who will get hurt if I say no. There’s no reason to argue with her now. I’ll get my revenge on the wedding day. I’ll end this whole nightmare.
When I come out of the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a robe Dahlia laid out for me, I’m facing a crew of women who’ve set up a makeshift salon. There’s a tower of trunks with makeup on top. There’s another station with a hair dryer and various other hair tools to get me ready. Dahlia is setting out jewelry.
“We’re just checking to make sure everything looks good together,” she explains to me when I raise an eyebrow at her. “In case we need to make any adjustments.”
I roll my eyes and sit down in the chair that’s clearly been pulled out for me. I notice I’m not set up to face the mirror. This is Mikhail’s doing, I’m sure. He doesn’t want me to see myself getting ready. It’s all part of his careful control.
As the hairstylist starts working product through my hair, she bends down to whisper, “You’re very lucky, you know.”
I look at her in surprise. She’s young and very pretty. She probably thinks this is a fairytale come true. It’s time she grows up.
“Lucky?” I repeat incredulously.
“To be chosen,” she says quickly, as if she’s rehearsed it. “To be the wife of apakhan.Some women would?—”
“Some women are stupid,” I cut in.
Dahlia looks up at us with concern. “Perhaps it’s best to have a silent appointment,” she says, looking at the hairstylist with meaning.
The young woman goes quiet and focuses on her tools again, hands trembling slightly. Good. She should be nervous. This is not a fairytale. This is a horror story.
She blow-dries my hair and works a hot iron through it while the makeup artist applies layer after layer of goo. They both finish at the same time, as if they’ve carefully coordinated this look together. Then, they step back as Dahlia brings me the dress.
It’s not the same one he sent in the crate, of course. This one is much more modern, more expensive, and clearly designed to photograph well. After they button me into it, I realize it clings in places that feel intentional, then flares out with soft fabric that hides my stomach. There are sheer lace sleeves and the neckline that stops just above the cleavage. It’s like Mikhail wants me to be grateful that this dress isn’t so constrictive.
The women all smile happily, and then Dahlia leads me over to the full-length mirror. At first, I have a hard time making the woman standing next to her look like me. The dress is beautiful. My makeup is soft, yet still bridal and dramatic. My hair is carefully curled and pinned perfectly into a complicated up-do. I look like the picture-perfect bride.
Maybe Mikhail realized that the other dress made me look like a prisoner. He wants to make sure no one doubts that I’m willingly choosing this. No one could look at a woman as beautiful as I am right now and think she’s being forced down the aisle with a gun to her head.
Then Dahlia brings the jewelry. She fastens a heavy necklace around my neck and pins a tiara in my hair. They both look very old and very expensive. I’m sure they’re family heirlooms brought over from Russia. She tries to hand me a pair of beautiful teardrop diamond earrings, but then puts them on me herself when I just stare at them.
I stare at myself again in the mirror and keep my face calm. No one has ever looked lovelier, but I see the truth in my eyes. Anyone who would dare to look would see the fear and the apprehension. Not that anyone will look. That’s the point, I realize. No one is going to look at me any deeper than the surface beauty. That’s what he wants. He wants to remind me that no one is going to save me.
A hard truth settles in my chest. I’ll have to save myself.
Mikhail thinks our wedding will end with my submission. He thinks he has planned every angle and eliminated every escape route. He thinks a crowd will stop me from making a scene. He is betting all of this on the one thing he thinks is true. He thinks I’ll choose to live through this.
I do want to live. I want to live more than I ever have, and it has nothing to do with him. It has to do with the life inside me. It has to do with the fact that I refused to let him take my voice, and I’m not about to let him take my child.
25
VIKTOR
