Page 85 of Scarlet Chains
I look at myself in the small mirror the consultants brought, and I understand what she sees. This isn’t a costume or a performance. This is me, but elevated— a version of myself that’s worthy of the magnitude of what I’m about to do. The dress is classic without being boring, sophisticated without being cold, beautiful without trying too hard.
It’s perfect. I’m perfect. And for the first time since this whole whirlwind began, I feel like a bride instead of just a woman making another complicated decision.
“Are you sure?” I ask, turning to face her.
“I’m sure,” she says firmly, but I see the tears gathering in her eyes. “You look like a princess, sweetheart. Like the most beautiful princess in the world.”
The words she used to say when I was little, when she’d help me play dress-up in her old evening gowns and costume jewelry. Back when princesses lived in castles and married princes and lived happily ever after without complications like dead fathers and dangerous husbands and mothers who don’t have enough time left.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe real life is better than fairy tales, anyway. Messier, more complicated, but also more honest. More earned.
“I love it,” I tell the consultants, who beam like they’ve just solved a particularly challenging puzzle. “We’ll take it,” I say it with the awkwardness of a woman whose fiancé just gave her an unlimited credit card and demanded that she use it.
The alterations are minimal— a slight adjustment to the waist, a small hem to accommodate my height. The seamstress works with quick, dexterous fingers while I stand still as a statue, letting myself be pinned and measured and perfected.
Osip watches all of this from his chair by the window, his gray eyes tracking every movement, every change, every small transformation. When the seamstress finishes and I’m back in my regular clothes, he stands and moves to where my mother is resting against her pillows.
“Thank you,” he tells her, his voice carrying a weight of meaning that goes beyond politeness. “For letting me be part of this. For trusting me with her.”
Mom reaches for his hand, her thin fingers surprisingly strong as they grip his.
“Take care of my daughter,” she says, and it’s not a request. It’s a command from a dying woman who’s entrusting him with the most precious thing she has.
“I will,” he promises, and I hear the vow in his voice, the unbreakable commitment that will bind him to those words forever. “I swear to you, I will.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Ilona
The day of our wedding dawns crisp and clear, Boston autumn turning everything red and gold and making it look like it’s been touched by magic.
I wake up in Osip’s arms— our arms, I correct myself, because after today there won’t be his and mine anymore, just ours.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sidorova,” he murmurs against my neck, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.
“Not yet,” I remind him, but I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. “You have to wait until this afternoon to call me that officially.”
His response is to roll me beneath him and kiss me senseless, his hands roaming over my body like he’s memorizing territory he plans to claim forever. We make love slowly, tenderly, with none of the desperate hunger that’s characterized these past few days. This is different— gentle, almost ceremonial, like we’re already beginning the ritual that will bind us together.
Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets that smell like sex and promises, his fingers combing through my hair while I press my lips to his chest.
“Nervous?” he asks quietly.
I consider the question.
Am I nervous?
There are a thousand reasons I should be. I’m marrying the man who killed my father. I’m binding my life to someone whose past is painted in shades of violence and moral ambiguity. I’m about to become stepmother to a child I’ve already fallen inlove with, part of a family built on foundations of tragedy and redemption.
But when I look at him, when I see the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious and miraculous, when I remember the way he held my mother’s hand and promised to take care of me— I realize that nervous isn’t the right word.
“Excited,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I’m excited to marry you, Mr. Sidorov.”
His smile is blinding, transformative, the kind of expression that reminds me why I fell in love with him in the first place.
“Good,” he says, pulling me closer. “Because I plan to spend the next fifty years making sure you never regret this decision.”
The morning passes in a blur of final preparations. Melor and Radimir arrive from Budapest, carrying themselves with the same dangerous grace that marks all the Sidorov men but tempered by something that looks almost like joy. I’ve only met them a few times, but they greet me with the warmth of brothers accepting their new sister, Russian phrases and bear hugs that smell like expensive cologne and good intentions.
