Page 19 of Marrying the Savage

“Naturally.”

“You are insane.”

“I prefer under-stimulated.”

“Sofia.”

“Anya.”

She exhales. I hear movement on her end, a door closing, her voice lowering. “You understand this is not like sending an invitation to an ex-boyfriend to make the groom jealous, right? This is Damir Volodin. Men don’t say his name too loudly in clubs where the walls might be listening.”

“I’m not inviting him to brunch. It’s a church.”

“That doesn’t make it safer.”

“It makes it ironic.”

“It makes it a crime scene with stained glass.”

I smile despite myself. God, I miss her.

“I just need the address.”

“You just need therapy.”

“Can you get it?”

“I can try.”

“Anya.”

“What? I said I can try. My cousin Arman runs a courier company that handles private deliveries for half the men your uncle pretends not to know. He might know which address receives Volodin’s formal mail.”

My pulse gives a strange little jump.

Formal mail. As if this is reasonable. As if Damir Volodin has a neat place where invitations to unwanted weddings may be delivered between bank statements and death threats.

Anya’s voice sharpens. “But listen to me. If I get this for you, you don’t write anything stupid.”

“I would never.”

“You once wrote ‘condolences’ on a birthday card because the man was turning forty.”

“He appreciated honesty.”

“He stopped speaking to you.”

“Exactly. Gift of silence.”

“Sofia.”

I soften, just slightly. “I know. I won’t write anything extra. Just the invitation.”

“Why are you really doing this?”

The question catches me before I can prepare a joke. I look around my room, at the fresh flowers I didn’t choose, the dress waiting for my fitting, the envelopes on my bed like little folded verdicts.

“Because they told me not to,” I say.