Page 27 of Then We Shatter

“Ihate them all.”

The dressmaker’s features pinch, deepening the lines that crisscross her paling complexion. Vivienne might be a world-renowned designer, but all her dresses are variations on the same theme. Barely-there bodices sitting atop clouds of silk, chiffon, taffeta and in one instance, fucking velvet. In this humidity?

After being rudely awakened by godawful screeches and caws rising up from this tropical fucking paradise, I’m in no mood to play dress-up. My face is bare of makeup, my hair tied in a ponytail and the skin around my chewed fingernails is raw. This is the version of me Eric is signing up for.

I haven’t seen him so far today. Emily had picked me up after breakfast and brought me to the main house where Vasili is ensconced with Eric somewhere. And while the men talk business, I’m trapped in a cavernous suite of rooms where a team of stylists and beauticians are queuing up to preen, pluck and mold me into the princess Eric presumes me to be.

“You might feel differently if you take the dresses off the rack,” Emily suggests. She’s smiling, but her eyes tighten. I know an invisible eyeroll when I see one.

Vivienne picks up one of the dresses and spreads out the skirt. For a woman barely five foot tall, she has incredible upper body strength. The monstrosity she’s chosen must be twice her bodyweight. “Perhaps you could try this on? We have a selection of matching shoes too,” she adds as if that’s going to clinch the deal.

“You expect me to wear those?” I ask, pointing an accusing finger to the assortment of satin and diamanté shoes lined up on a sideboard. They’re in varying shades of cream but with one thing in common. They’re all kitten heels. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in heels less than six-inches.”

Vivienne casts an appraising gaze down to my sneakers, but says nothing. Bitch.

I’d chosen the footwear, along with cycle shorts and a tank top because there wasn’t much else to choose from despite the extensive designer wardrobe that had been waiting for me at the guest villa. I’d been forced to leave all my personal belongings behind in Chicago, but I’m not so desperate that I’d willingly dress like Barbie. I should ask my husband-to-be for his black Amex so I can do a little online shopping, but after less than twenty-four hours on this godforsaken island, I’m missing Siberia.

I stalk over to Vivienne and go to snatch the dress, but she fights back briefly. She’d caught me eyeing up the dressmaking scissors next to a box of pins on a nearby table and she’s right to be worried. If I had the energy, I’d cut this particular explosion of voile to shreds.

“My last wedding dress was simple,” I explain as I toss the gown to the floor and pick up another from the rack. “It was ivory silk with a fitted bodice…” I lift the dress I’m holding higher, glaring at the deep V-shape that would surely reach my navel. Hideous. I add it to the pile. “It was figure-hugging with an embroidered fishtail. That’s the kind of dress I want.”

Emily clears her throat. “Do you not think… You never actually got to wear that dress,” she says. The story Vasili has spun is that I was jilted the day before my wedding. “By… pick… picking something different, you could put the past behind you.”

It’s brave of her to remind me how it all went catastrophically wrong, but how dare she preach about moving on? I won’t move on. I don’t want to forget the past, even if those memories stab at my heart.

It hurts so much I can’t breathe.

When my eyes dart back to the scissors, it’s not the dresses I want to cut up. Alexei must read my expression because his hand moves to his gun. He doesn’t overly care about Emily and Vivienne’s safety. It’s Vasili’s reputation he’s protecting.

“Please, Katarina,” Emily tries. The air conditioning keeps the room cool, but there are beads of sweat on her brow. “If we pick out, say, the two you hate the least… We can take photos….” Her voice catches in her throat and her words dry up.

Will her job be on the line if I show up in sweats on my wedding day? Opting for style over comfort had crossed my mind. I’m only good at pretense when there’s something in it for me. And marrying the South African billionaire is not for my benefit, not while I’m being kept on this prison of an island.

Emily takes a steadying breath. “If you don’t want to choose, we can pick one for you.”

Her wording gives me pause. It isn’t me she needs to appease, but her boss. Every single one of these gowns is overtly sexual and impractical for a tropical setting. A woman wouldn’t have chosen them.

“When you say we,” I ask, “I hope that doesn’t include my future husband. Seeing the dress before the wedding would be terribly bad luck, and I have enough of that in my life.”

Emily shuffles her feet. “I just want to help.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath. I’m too jet-lagged and jaded for this shit. Superstition is the least of my troubles and the worst thing that could happen, already has. I stab a stunted finger at the rack. “That one and that one. Throw the others in the sea for all I care. There must be a fisherman in need of a net.”

Ignoring the sniff of annoyance from Vivienne, I peel off my tank top to reveal a black lace bra. Maybe I should have chosen white underwear for the fitting, but maybe I don’t give a fuck. I shoot a look at Alexei and waggle a finger in a circular motion, gesturing for him to turn around. He arches an eyebrow, and before he obeys, he makes a point of picking up the scissors from the table.

As I’m shrugging out of my shorts, I furrow my brow as if a thought has just struck. “Are there actually fisherman nearby?” I ask Emily. I’d glimpsed a few vessels from the helicopter just before we landed.

“We get almost all of our seafood directly from the locals. It’s so fresh,” she replies as she helps the dressmaker unfasten pearl buttons ready for me to step into the first dress.

“So, there’s a dock on the island?”

“Planning your escape so soon, kotenok?” comes a deep, rasping voice I haven’t heard for not nearly enough years. Of all the men who called me kitten, Grigor Kruglov is the one who consistently appears in my nightmares.

Dropping my shorts on the floor next to my tank top, I twist towards the man in the doorway and jut out my hip. I don’t cower or try to cover up. I aim for indifference and my training serves me well. “This is paradise compared to the Siberian winter I’ve just escaped from,” I tell him, my voice unwavering. “Why on earth would I want to leave?”

“Why indeed?” he asks, coming over to greet me.

Grigor kisses me three times on alternate cheeks while his hands grab my waist. His fingers splay as he sustains his hold, pressing me closer. What he doesn’t touch with his fingers, he explores with his lecherous gaze.