The wedding—my wedding—is fit for royalty. Like, the Windsor’s have nothing on them.
After the priest announced us husband and wife, Maxim, still looking nothing but bored, grabbed my hand and pulled me down the aisle. There’d been flashing lights then too, some people marveling. I was too scared to look at anyone, terrified Lev Zimin wouldn’t appear so nice anymore.
Maxim threw me into a fancy-looking car, the driver peeling away immediately.
“Who are you?” my husband asked, pulling out his phonefrom his jacket pocket at the same time. He didn’t look up once.
What would happen to me now? What would happen to all my stuff? What would happen to my overpriced, crappy, roach-infested apartment?
Stuck in thought, I choked, unable to answer his question. He lifted one dark brow, while still on his phone. Unimpressed. My husband is most definitely unimpressed with me, not that I blame him.
“Your dress is beautiful,” the teen says.
I’m standing by the dessert table because I have no idea what else to do. It’s a Friday wedding, and the night is already dark. Music pumps through the room and waiters pass out an abundance of alcohol.
I haven’t seen my husband since I got here.
“Can we take a picture?” another of the teen asks.
Are they Russian royalty? Heirs to the mafia? One of them is using a Chanel clutch so they’ve got to be somebody.
“Sure.” I do my best to smile, but even in my twenty-thousand-dollar dress, I’m nothing but a used tissue. Why do these rich teenagers make me feel like I’m back in high school?
“So cute,” one of them coos, instantly tapping away at the device. Then their eyes slid mischievously toward another friend. They giggle as they walk away and I have an inkling why. They didn’t post that photo to show off my dress or because this is the wedding of the season. They now have proof on their Instagram that the Zimin’s got played.
Great.
A woman keeps staring at me, her long polished nails tapping against her clutch. When I see my husband’s twin approach her, I recognize her as the woman sitting next to Lev in the church. She’s my mother-in-law.
The decadent cake behind me, complete with six layers of beautiful swirls of icing, begs to be eaten. I’d inhale the wholething, a much-needed stress relief, if I could. Wouldn’t that make for a great Instagram story?
But before I can do that someone is beside me—my husband.
He towers over me. He’s handsome as hell. And he’s seriously bored.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks.
I’m choking in this skintight dress, the material heavy and the slit so high I’m afraid of making any sudden movements for fear of flashing people. My skull aches from the amount of bobby pins crammed into whatever creation Marissa styled and my lashes are heavy with mascara.
Yes, I want to get out of here.
But with him?
He’s lost his jacket somewhere and he holds out a hand, the other casually in his pocket. He’s uninterested in the circus around us, and doesn’t note the photographer who WILL. NOT. STOP. taking our photo.
This isn’t even a cute moment. It’s two people finding themselves in a shit show.
He offers his hand.
In the dim light, it’s difficult to see his dark eyes. I feel them, though. Hard and bitter. He’s offering me a way out, but it’s not an easy one.
Pinning me down like he knows there’s only one option, he offers the slightest crook of his lips. Instinctively, I know this smirk is one of the few facial expressions I’ll ever get out of him.
I place my hand in his, my chest no longer constricting just from the tight dress.
He pulls me like earlier, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket. It’s rough compared to the way he smoothly strides through the room, not noticing a single other person.
I wish I was like him. Instead, every wide grin or waggle ofthe brows hits me. An old Russian guy lifts his glass in a mock cheer knowing this is our wedding night.
