Page 8 of Marrying the Silver Fox

In front of me, a large jet sits waiting on an otherwise-empty runway. The sky above is a bright, clear blue—perfect conditions for a flight, I’m sure, so I’m not even going to be able to get out of it that way. Two attendants stand at the bottom of a set of steps, shoulders rolled back, eyes forward, immaculate matching uniforms on both of them.

Everything about this is so…polished. I’m not used to it. Not used to having it for myself, at least. This is the kind of thing I would try to prepare for the people I plan for, moving all the pieces behind the scenes so that when they finally step into it everything is all ready for them to enjoy.

But this? For me? Nah, this isn’t something I’m used to, and it makes my toes curl with nervousness, this certainty deep within me that I’m going to make a fool of myself.

The driver keys a code into a gate in the fence and pushes it open for us, allowing me to go first. I glance back toward Nikolai, who I notice is standing just behind me, almost blocking my way, as if he’s making sure I don’t try to make a run for it.

At this point, why would I? The damage has already been done. I’ve already married him, for the sake of protecting my professional reputation. Stepping onto a private jet to Russia feels like small fries compared to dedicating my life to a man I barely know.

And kissing him, right there at the altar, in front of everyone.

That kiss, that was…that was the strangest part of all of this for me, by far. Not because I didn’t like it. But because, whether I’m willing to admit it to myself or not, I did.

The feel of his mouth on mine, the way he took my face in his hands like he had already claimed me, it keeps replaying in my mind. It’s probably just because I haven’t been kissed in a long time by just about anyone—a brief peck on the cheek from the brides I work for doesn’t count—but it feels as though it’s still tingling on my mouth, whether I want to admit it or not.

At the bottom of the steps, I nearly tangle in the skirt once more, and I let out an irritated sigh. “I’m not going to be able to do the whole flight in this,” I complain. “Let me go back to my place, pick up some of my clothes first at least⁠—”

“Anna,” he barks, catching the attention of one of the attendants.

She looks to him expectantly. “Yes, Pakhan?”

Pakhan—what the hell does that mean? I wonder if I’ve misheard her, but he doesn’t correct her as he continues.

“Go to the airport. Buy some new clothes for my wife. Andie, tell her what size you are, what kind you prefer.”

I widen my eyes. This is all so crazy. I mean, I know these people have money to burn, with the way they throw money around to pay for their weddings, but it’s quite another thing to be at the other side of it. I’m not sure it’s something I will ever get used to—shit, if it’s even something I want to get used to. I’ve seen what being spoiled can do, how indolent it can make you, like nothing in the world matters because you know you don’t have to work for it. And I never want that for myself.

“That’s ridiculous,” I argue. “I have clothes of my own. I don’t need new ones.”

“We’re not waiting any longer,” Nikolai tells me firmly, his voice low, leaving no room for argument.

I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out if there’s any way out of this for me, but I can tell he has already locked in, decided how this is going to go. I sigh, and turn to the attendant, sharing a few details about the kind of stuff I’d like. I hate feeling like I’m taking advantage of anyone, but if this is what he’s so insistent on for me, fine, I’ll go along with it.

I finally get on the plane. Inside, it looks like some luxury penthouse—deep red leather seats by the large windows, a polished glass table in the center, art on the walls, soft red carpet beneath my feet.

I try not to let Nikolai see how impressed I am by it. I don’t want him to see that there’s any part of this I appreciate, because that would be admitting that this isn’t all some crazy mistake.

I perch on the edge of one of the seats as he goes to speak to the pilot, and a few minutes later, the attendant arrives with bags overflowing with clothes.

“I just picked out anything I thought sounded good,” she says as she hands them over to me, slightly out of breath.

I stare down at the ridiculous amount of stuff before me, hardly able to wrap my head around it. It’s just so much. I’m pretty sure there is more here than in my entire wardrobe at home, but Nikolai’s not even here to see it. It’s like it doesn’t even matter to him. I guess that’s what growing up with money will do for you…

“Would you like something to drink?” Anna asks me, clasping her hands behind her back, clearly intent on making a good impression.

I run a hand through my hair, let out a long breath, and then nod. “Yeah,” I reply firmly. “Can I have…uh, a glass of white wine? Chilled, please?”

If I’m going to do all of this, I figure I should at least make the most of it that I can. I know this is insane, but I’m in it now, and there’s nothing I can do about it now that I’m on this plane. Unless I race into the cockpit and wrestle the controls away from the pilot and fly us all the way back to my studio apartment in Brooklyn, I think I should just keep my damn head down and get on with things.

And a glass of wine isn’t exactly going to hurt…

I head into one of the bathrooms and strip out of the dress, stuffing it into the bottom of one of the bags so I don’t have to look at it again. Ugh. I can’t believe I was even wearing that thing, but what choice did I have? It’s hardly the dress I would have chosen. Or the husband, for that matter. But then, it’s not as though I have some long line of men who just can’t wait to get their hands on me.

And Nikolai, I have to admit, is…well, he’s kind of hot.

Not that I ever try to look at the grooms of the women I plan weddings for that way, but he has something about him, something commanding, something that seems to have everyone jumping to do what he asks. Including me, though I’m trying not to think about that part. I mean, that attendant rushing off to grab these clothes for me at the snap of his finger—it’s wild to me, to have that much command over people, to make it look so easy.

I dig through the bags and eventually pull out a simple tan dress, the kind I might wear at work. It won’t draw too much attention, and it’s comfortable to boot. I slip it on over my head and stare at myself in the mirror, letting out a sigh of relief as I meet my own gaze.