Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Go fuck yourself.”
Mika goes still, head bent over his tablet, as always, but clearly listening. Is he worried for my well-being now that we’ve made friends? I wonder if I can’t convince him to help me somehow.
Then again, I’m not sure I’m willing to put him in the position of betraying the only parent figure he has in the world right now.
Vlad just chuckles, though. He doesn’t seem to have a temper; at least not with me.
The limo pulls up in front of a church and the stone sitting in my stomach sinks even lower. We are actually doing this.
“You think you’re going to get a priest to perform a wedding to a bride in a pink halter dress?” I ask. I’m so sick of this dress right now, I’d like to put it through a shredder. And Vlad hasn’t given me my freaking panties back, either.
Vlad smirks. “I have a white dress for you. And a woman to help you dress. All you have to do is walk down the aisle.”
I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”
“As it should be between husband and wife.” He climbs out of the car and offers me a hand. I shake my head, but don’t bother commenting on his piss-poor view of love, women or marriage. My dress rides up as I scoot out and his blue eyes darken, following the hem up my thigh. I shake off his hand and yank the dress down.
The church is empty. At least I won’t be getting married in front of a crowd of people I don’t know. Vlad deposits me in a small room where an old lady waits. She bustles over to me, speaking in Russian.
“Five minutes,” Vlad tells me, then says something to the old woman in Russian. As he leaves, he points a threatening finger at me. “Try to escape and she’ll be punished for it.” He tips his head at the old woman.
My mouth drops open, heart beating faster.
It’s a bluff, I tell myself as he shuts the door. He wouldn’t hurt an old woman any more than he would hurt me. Or Mika. It’s just that he has my number now. He’s figured out I have compassion for the people around me and he’s manipulating me with it.
Still, I’m reluctant to call his bluff. I definitely don’t want an old woman facing his wrath.
The woman wears a dour expression and chatters at me in Russian, holding up a white bustier and panties and pushing me into the restroom.
Deducing she wants me to put on my undergarments in private, I go into the stall and shuck the halter dress. I showered in the tiny jet bathroom this morning, but it feels glorious to put on clean underclothing. The bustier and panties fit perfectly. How did Vlad know? He didn’t even have a bra to go off of.
I come out of the bathroom. The old woman holds up a wedding dress. It's not bad as far as wedding dresses go. Definitely could be worse. It's strapless with a simple satin bodice. A satin band trims the top and makes a flat bow in the back. The dress is fitted through the waist and hips and flares out at the ankles, the hem falling higher in front than in back.
My elderly attendant thrusts a cascading bouquet of pale pink roses in my hands, then squats down at my feet, arranging several shoeboxes beside her. She says something in Russian and holds up a pair of silver strappy sandals.
I wrinkle my nose. “I don't love them, if that's what you're asking.”
She bobs her head and says something else, unboxing a simple pair of white satin pumps.
I look at the third box. “What else do you have there?”
She opens it. Strappy white satin sandals.
I point to the pumps. “Probably those. Let's try them.”
She gets the gist and helps me into the shoes. They're fine. Nothing special but they fit. As soon as they're on, she hustles me out the door to the chapel.
The knot in my stomach moves up to my solar plexus, making it hard to breathe. I'm sweaty and freezing at once. Just a few days ago I was at my brothers’ double wedding lamenting I'd never have a love match like them. Even so I never dreamed my wedding would be like this. That I would be a captive bride in a foreign country.
This doesn’t matter. It isn’t real.
So I keep telling myself, but the sentimental part of me doesn’t believe it. This is a wedding. A church wedding in front of God and a Russian Orthodox priest, who can’t be that different from a Catholic priest.
There’s no one playing Here Comes the Bride for me to walk down the aisle. There’s no music at all. No guests, either, unless you count Mika and Vlad’s horde of security guys.