Page 7 of Marrying the Silver Fox

ANDIE

I lift my skirts to climb into the car, making sure they don’t drag in the puddle at the edge of the sidewalk below. As I do so, I stare for a moment at the froth of lace and white fabric, not quite able to connect the dots that I am the one wearing this wedding dress.

That I am the one who just got fucking married.

I still can’t believe it. I keep waiting for the moment when I’m going to snap awake in my bed and all of this is going to be some ridiculous stress dream that my brain threw at me because I’ve been thinking so much about this event.

Because there’s no way—there’s just no way something like this could actually happen. That a groom could demand that I step into the place of his runaway bride and marry him on the day of his fucking wedding. And that I would go along with a single bit of it, because I know he could all too easily wreck my business if I don’t give him what he wants.

Nikolai is holding the door to the sleek black car open for me, and I slip into the back seat, the leather soft against my skin. I glance back toward the beautiful hotel I just got married in—shit, there it is again, those words, that reality—and wonder what they’re all thinking in there.

He was right to get us out of there, that much I’m sure of, since I’m certain people would have demanded to know what was going on and I don’t exactly have an answer. But the thought of being alone with Nikolai spooks me in its own right because—well, what is he going to expect from me, now that we are husband and wife?

He climbs in opposite me, and I stare at him as the car pulls away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” I blurt out, suddenly realizing that I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen after the wedding. That’s not my area of expertise, after all. I tangle my fingers in the lace of the dress, that perfect drop-skirt suddenly feeling like it’s digging into every inch of me.

“The airport.”

My eyes widen. “Wait, what⁠—”

“My jet is waiting,” he replies, as though that’s enough in the way of explanation.

I almost laugh. My heart is beating out of my chest at the thought of being alone with him. Let alone spending time with him in a private jet. I know nothing about this man, aside from the fact that he was willing to force my hand into doing something crazy like this when he thought he was going to be humiliated in front of all of those people.

“Where are we going?”

“Russia.”

“Russia?” I feel stupid, repeating it after him like that, but I’m sure I can’t have heard it right. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I shake my head. “I can’t go to Russia,” I protest. “I have my work to think of. I have other events that⁠—”

“You can find someone else to cover them.”

“These people hired me,” I point out. “And besides, I have contracts. If I fail them, I’ll owe big money⁠—”

“I’ll cover that.”

Every argument I try to throw at him, he has some way to knock it back down again. I slump back against the seat, trying to wrap my head around it. He just expects me to up and leave my life behind so I can go play at being his wife? Does he have any idea how fucking crazy it sounds? I want to battle him on this, but I can tell that every attempt I make to argue my point is going to be met with a brush-off that leaves no room for fighting.

“What exactly are we going to Russia for?” I mutter. Hardly a honeymoon destination I’ve heard anyone gushing about over the years, after all.

“To meet my family.”

“They weren’t at the wedding?”

He shakes his head. “And as far as they know, you were always the girl I was going to marry,” he adds sharply, locking eyes with me. “Any word to the contrary…”

“I won’t say anything,” I assure him, holding my hands up. “But why weren’t they there? I mean, your mom and dad, not at your wedding⁠—”

“My dad wasn’t there because he has a business to run,” he replies bluntly.

I fall silent. No mention of his mother, and I doubt that’s a coincidence. I regard him for a moment, studying his face, but it gives nothing away. He’s clearly practiced at holding in what’s really going through his head, and I wonder where he had to learn that from, what he has been through that pushed him to that point.

I don’t say another word to him for the rest of the journey, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m going to Russia. I’ve never so much as left the US before—shit, never even made it out of the state—and this is one hell of a first trip, I’ll say that.

If Nikolai’s really going to cover the time I take away from work, then I guess, maybe, I should try to enjoy it. I mean, in the middle of all this, I don’t have any way out of it. I am married now, to this man who seems determined to take control in every way he can, and if I try to fight against it, I get the feeling I’m going to land in even more trouble than I would have been if I had just told him to figure out the wedding himself and walked away.

Before I know it, the car is pulling to a halt alongside a large metal fence. The driver steps out, opening the door for me, and I awkwardly wrap my dress around my hand so I don’t tumble over my skirts. I’m a little shorter than Natalie, and I feel like I’m about to go ass-over-head at any moment in this thing, as pretty as it is.