Page 63 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
The way she said it made something warm unfurl in my chest. Voronov women. Like I actually belonged to something, like I was part of something bigger than just myself and my stubborn refusal to be broken.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to approve the final guest list, review the media strategy Zara’s developed, and try on the dress I had designed for you to wear.”
“You had a dress designed for me?”
“By me. I had a dress designed by me, for you.” She gestured toward the back room. “Something that says, ‘I’m Eleanor Voronov, I survived an assassination attempt, and I look fucking spectacular doing it.’”
Zara grinned. “I need to see this dress.”
The dress was hanging in the back room like a piece of liquid midnight, all sharp angles and flowing lines that somehow managed to be both elegant and dangerous. It was the kind of dress that would photograph beautifully but also looked like it could conceal weapons if necessary.
“Anya, this is—”
“Try it on before you decide if you love it or hate it.”
I slipped into the bathroom and pulled the dress over my head, immediately understanding why Anya had insisted on this particular design. The fabric moved like water, but the cut was structured enough to give me the kind of silhouette that commanded attention. When I glanced in the mirror, I saw someone who looked like she belonged in Maxim’s world without losing herself in the process.
“Holy shit,” Zara said when I emerged. “Eleanor, you look like you could murder someone and make it look fashionable.”
“That was the goal,” Anya said, circling me with critical eyes. “In our world, perception is everything. You need to look like someone who can’t be intimidated, someone who’s more dangerous than the people trying to hurt her.”
“Do I look dangerous?”
“You look like you could smile while cutting someone’s throat and then host a dinner party afterward.” She made a few adjustments to the neckline. “Perfect.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a psychological evaluation.”
“In this family, it’s both.”
Zara was typing rapidly on her phone. “I’m sending photos to the photographer. If we can get some shots of you in this dress before the show, we can use them for the promotional materials.”
“Photos?”
“Eleanor, you’re news now. Whether you like it or not, people are fascinated by your story. The socialite who married into the Bratva, survived an assassination attempt, and is launching a fashion line anyway. It’s the kind of narrative that sells magazines and fills venues.”
I looked at myself in the mirror again, trying to see what they saw. The woman looking back at me was still recognizably me, but there was something different in her eyes. Something harder, more resolved.
“When did I become news?” I asked.
“The moment you married Maxim,” Anya said bluntly. “His world doesn’t allow for privacy. Everything is public, everything is political, and everything is a statement.”
“What kind of statement am I making?”
“That depends on how you want to play this. You can be the victim, the innocent bystander who got caught up in something bigger than herself. Or you can be the woman who looked at that world and decided to make it hers.”
The choice, when she put it like that, seemed obvious.
“I want to be the woman who makes it hers.”
“Good. Because that’s the only version of this story that ends with you still breathing.”
Anya’s phone rang, and she glanced at the screen with an expression that immediately shifted from business to personal. “It’s Maxim. Give me a second.”
She stepped into the hallway, but I could still hear her side of the conversation, a mix of English and Russian that sounded like she was giving a detailed operational report.
“Your sister-in-law is intense,” Zara observed.
