Page 22 of Ruins
A firm grip wraps around my ankle, pulling.
“Mom, I’m tired.” My voice is muffled as I grumble into the mattress, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
My mother stands over me, unimpressed, arms crossed as she watches my pathetic attempt at resistance.
“You need to be up and ready,” she says, her tone clipped. “There’s no time for lounging. We have shopping to do, dresses to look at. Your future husband has mademanyarrangements.”
My stomach twists.
The reminder of my impending wedding settles like a weight against my ribs.
Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed, already dreading the day ahead.
But my mother doesn’t just expect obedience. She expects perfection.
She lingers, eyes sharp as I get ready, ensuring that every detail of my appearance is flawless. The way my hair falls. The precision of my concealer. The way my posture holds.
Her gaze follows me as I reach for a skirt and sweater from my closet.
I don’t even get the chance to slip them on before her hand clamps around my wrist, stopping me.
I meet her stare—eyes that mirror mine but colder, harsher, more unyielding.
Iexpectedpushback from my mother.
No matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough for Vera Popov.
She wants a daughter like her—poised, elegant, dutiful without question or emotion.
To her, I amtoomuch.
Too emotional. Too inquisitive. Toobright.
‘Men don’t like women with their noses in books.’
One of many mantras from Vera Popov.
And yet, I’ve never been able to stop myself from reaching for more than what she’s willing to give.
My sister, on the other hand, is setting herself up to be unpredictable. My mother will have a much harder time taming her.
I pull my arm away with a sigh.
“You cannot wear that,” she spits, disgust dripping from her tone.
I lift a brow. “And what would you have me wear,Mother?”
“Anything but those awful, matronly atrocities you claim to be clothes.” She waves a dismissive hand toward my closet. “You look like a librarian.”
A flicker of amusement tugs at my lips.
She ignores me.
“The only thing I can appreciate in your wardrobe are your heels. The higher, the better—especially given your height.” Her eyes trail over me, assessing, judging.
I already know what’s coming before she even turns toward my closet.
She rummages through it like it belongs to her, fingers brushing past my sweaters, my skirts, my carefully chosen pieces, before she reaches the back.
