Page 16 of Marrying the Savage

I feel irritated, mostly, because now Damir Volodin has managed to ruin both lunch and masturbation, and he was not even physically present for the second one.

That seems unfairly talented.

I clean up in the bathroom, avoid looking too long at my reflection, and climb back into bed with damp hands and a very serious intention to never think of him again.

It lasts approximately eight seconds, and then I picture his mouth.

“Stop it,” I tell myself.

My body, freshly satisfied and apparently shameless, offers no apology.

Eventually, sometime close to dawn, sleep finds me.

It’s not restful.

In my dream, I’m walking down the aisle in a white dress while Dmitri waits at the altar, smiling that polished, possessive smile. My uncle sits in the front pew, watching like a man pleased with a completed transaction.

The priest opens his mouth. The church doors groan behind me. And when I turn, Damir Volodin stands in the entrance, black gloves in one hand, my invitation in the other.

I wake up with my heart pounding. The room is pale with morning light. For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling.

Then I start laughing.

Not loudly. Not happily, exactly. Just enough to know I’m in trouble.

By breakfast, I look perfectly normal, which is one of my more useful talents. My hair is brushed, my dress is pale yellow, my earrings are tasteful, and no one looking at me would suspect that I spent part of the night climaxing to thoughts of my fiancé’s worst enemy.

Personal growth comes in many forms.

The household is already awake when I go downstairs. Staff move through the halls with floral arrangements, garment bags, trays of coffee, and expressions of controlled panic. Every surface seems to have been invaded by wedding objects: ribbons, paper samples, seating drafts, little boxes of sugared almonds tied with gold thread.

My wedding has become a fungus. It spreads while I sleep.

In the morning room, the wedding planner stands near the long table with two assistants and several stacks of envelopes. Polina Kuznetsova is tall, elegant, and frighteningly efficient, with a blond chignon so tight it looks like it could hold state secrets. She greets me with the bright smile of a woman paid enough to pretend I have choices.

“Good morning, Miss Antonova.”

“Is it?”

Her smile doesn’t move. Professional. Impressive. “The invitations have arrived.”

My gaze drops to the table. There they are. Stacks of cream envelopes, thick and beautiful, my doom arranged alphabetically.

For some reason, seeing them in person makes the wedding feel more real than the dress fittings or the church visits ever have. Maybe because invitations travel. They leave the house. They enter other people’s hands. They tell the world something is happening whether or not the bride has agreed to it.

Polina lifts one card carefully and shows it to me. Gold lettering gleams across the page.

Dmitri Sokolov and Sofia Antonova request the honor of your presence⁠—

I stop reading. The words blur after my name.

“Lovely,” I say.

Polina beams. “We were very pleased with the final embossing.”

“Yes. Nothing says lifelong commitment like aggressive stationery.”

One of her assistants drops her pen. Polina pretends not to notice.