Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
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
News reaches me of the wedding day rapidly approaching, and only Sergei can calm me down. The information of where is only provided to invitees, and I clearly didn’t make the guest list. I’m forced to get the location the ugly way.
I have my men take a Grinkov runner off the street in Bensonhurst two nights after the breach. He’s a courier who thinks he’s important because he gets to carry envelopes and deliver quiet orders. He’s the kind of man who feels powerful because he gets to invoke Mikhail’s name and see people squirm. In reality, he’s a nobody with no backbone.
I watch on a surveillance camera as he starts crying the moment my men grab him, and doesn’t stop as they put a black bag over his head. He screams like a little bitch as Misha pulls him into the back of the van and shuts the door.
They bring him to a property I don’t use often, an old garage that looks abandoned from the outside. Sergei’s declined to be part of this. He thinks I’m taking the violence too far, so I’ve let him off the hook for now. He’s in Brighton Beach doing damage control while I take care of the mess.
I walk in and see the runner tied to a chair, hood still on. His wrists are bound behind him and his ankles are zip-tied to the chair legs. He’s sweating hard enough that I can smell it from across the room.
Misha steps closer to me and keeps his voice low.
“He’s been quiet for most of the ride,” he tells me. “He says he’s ready to talk, but only to you.”
“I’m here,” I say, loud enough for the runner to hear.
Misha nods and steps back.
I circle the man slowly. I don’t rush. I don’t shout. I want to really let him stew in his fear. I want him to wonder if any second could be his last. I finally grab the hood and yank it off after a minute.