Page 17 of Marrying the Savage

My uncle enters a few minutes later, already dressed for meetings, his phone in one hand and his patience, as usual, in limited supply. He looks over the invitations, gives a short nod, and speaks to Polina about courier routes, confirmations, and security checks.

I sit at the table with coffee and half a croissant, ignored in the way brides often are while everyone plans their lives with great enthusiasm.

Then Polina says, “And Miss Antonova, these are for your personal list.”

A small stack of blank envelopes appears in front of me.

I look at them. “My personal list?”

“Yes,” she says. “Mr. Sokolov approved twenty invitations for your guests.”

I blink.

Twenty guests.

How generous of him. Truly, someone should alert the saints. Dmitri Sokolov, merciful ruler of my social existence, has allowed me to invite up to twenty whole people to witness my legal captivity.

I place a hand over my chest. “Only twenty? I was hoping to invite the entire circus.”

My uncle doesn’t look up from his phone. “Don’t start.”

“I’m touched, actually. Dmitri remembered I know people.”

“He approved enough.”

“Enough for what? A hostage exchange?”

Polina’s smile begins to strain.

My uncle finally looks at me. “Sofia.”

I lift both hands in surrender. “I’m grateful. Deeply moved. I may write a poem.”

“Write addresses,” he says.

That, apparently, is the end of the discussion.

I take the envelopes.

Twenty.

In truth, I don’t even have twenty people I want there. My school friends live abroad. The women who orbit our family are not friends so much as witnesses with better jewelry. Anya is the only person I can imagine inviting because she is the only one who might smuggle vodka in her purse and whisper inappropriate commentary during the vows.

Maybe that’s enough.

I carry the envelopes back to my room after breakfast, along with a list Polina has helpfully provided of acceptable guests.

Acceptable.

I stand in the center of my bedroom and read the names. Cousins I barely know. Wives of men my uncle likes. Two women Dmitri’s mother thinks will look good in photographs.

I think of my best friend. She’s the last person my uncle would want there. Divorced, too loud mouthed for her own good. So naturally, she’s the first person I call.

She answers on the fourth ring. “If this is about the wedding, I’m already wearing black.”

“Excellent. Funeral theme.”

“I knew it. Who died?”