Page 55 of Conceal

“I never wanted this for you,” she says, her voice low. She looks back over her shoulder at Roman to ensure that he’s far enough away that he can’t hear her. For the first time in a while, I’m curious. “That’s why I tried to set you up with someone before your father could use you in his business.”

My brain is sluggish, but I finally start understanding. She saw this coming. She knows women and marriages are used in our world to create contracts and alliances. Of course she does. She was probably in an arranged marriage with my father. Why have I never heard their love story? Or the story behind how they met?

Maybe that’s why she’s always self-medicating. Maybe that’s what all the matchmaking was about. Not in an effort to get rid of me, but to protect me from this? She knows better than anyone my father’s heartlessness. He’s never looked at her with an ounce of compassion.

I blink at her, dumbfounded. But words don’t come. She’s also never exactly been motherly to me either, so one quiet confession isn’t going to replace a lifetime of a lack of relationship.

“I can’t give you the marriage you want, but I’m hoping I can give you the wedding you want. It’s the least I can do.”

Something clicks into place in my brain. This is why we’re at a cake tasting. Why she didn’t just pick everything out for me. This is her apology for her role in this arranged marriage.

Hope or gratitude attempts to surge forward, but it’s downed under the numbness. I could rally and try to pretend that this is my dream; that I’m taste-testing the wedding cake I’m going to share with my guys. But I can’t find it in me.

So, I don’t.

My mother huffs in frustration at my lack of response.

The curvy baker returns with two trays of bite-sized pieces of cake. White cake with chocolate frosting, red velvet, chocolate on chocolate, and a German streusel looking one, and more. All with decorated toothpicks sticking out of the tops.

My mother picks up the first and elbows me to do the same. It’s not this poor woman’s fault that this is a sham.

I pick up the red velvet and pop it into my mouth. It tastes like ash. But I like the color. A mental image of my blood splashed across the white cream of the cake assaults me, but it feels fitting.

“That one,” I say.

“You don’t want to try the others...” the woman tries.

“No. That one’s perfect. Thank you,” I say, standing and walking out the door.

Roman follows me, letting the door slide shut behind him. He wraps a warm hand around my wrist.

“Tanya, please...” he starts, but the door opens again, and he drops my wrist like it’s burned him. The brief touch makes my nose burn with unshed tears. I don’t know what he was planning on saying, but it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

So he drives us to our next location. Internally, I groan when I read the sign hanging above an ornate glass door.

White Magnolia Bridal.

It feels like a slap in the face. Because yes, I’ve imagined my wedding day since I was a kid. And trying on a wedding gown was going to be a special occasion. With friends. And champagne. And tears. And excitement to walk down the aisle to the love of my life.

Think I could get away with a black dress?

Roman doesn’t even offer his hand this time. He simply escorts us into the shop. We’re greeted by an overly cheerful older woman and escorted into a section with changing rooms, a trifold mirror on a platform, and plush chairs.

“Do we have a dress shape in mind?” the woman asks, and my chest tightens. Because yes. I do. Or, I did.

I’ve always loved traditional Russian wedding dresses. I love how modest they are, coming up to the neck and having long sleeves. But they’re ornate, detailed, and full of decoration. The headdress would make me feel like a princess. The one I fell in love with doesn’t have the bright reds of a traditional dress, but gold and silver filigree down the arms and bodice, the dress flowing out and to the floor.

I can’t wear that. I won’t.

“Something thin,” I reply. If I can’t pick my husband, I can pick the exact opposite of my dream wedding.

“Thin?” The woman looks perplexed.

“Sheer. Sleeveless. One that hugs my body,” I explain.

“I think I have just the one...” she says before disappearing behind a swinging door.

“Are you sure?” Irina asks. I don’t know what she knows about me or my dream wedding, but I think she can tell something’s off. She’s surprisingly sober today.