Page 51 of Savage Vows
Conversation stills, just for a heartbeat. She keeps her gaze steady, chin level, one hand lightly on the banister as if she owns every step. For a moment, the house looks smaller around her.
She meets my eyes and holds them.
My father lets out a low, pointed hum. “The dress is shorter than I remember,” he says, almost to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear.
Adriana doesn’t hesitate. She looks my father dead in the eye, her chin just slightly raised. “Maybe your memory’s slipping. Would you like to compare notes with your son?”
His mouth tightens, but he lets it pass. “Good,” he says, tapping his watch. “Let’s not be late.”
I offer my arm. She hesitates just long enough to remind everyone in the room it’s her decision, then rests her hand on mine—cool, steady.
We step outside, the cold air biting, the car waiting at the curb. She’s silent at first, her hand light on my arm, the red dress still catching in my peripheral vision. We make it to the car, and just as I’m about to open the door for her, she glances down at herself.
“Your dad left me the dress, didn’t he?” Her voice is flat, not a question so much as a challenge.
I meet her eyes. “You didn’t have to wear it.”
She gives a short, humorless laugh. “Your family is trying to humiliate me.” She doesn’t even bother to soften it, or look away. There’s no shame in her, just blunt anger.
I don’t deny it. I can’t. For a second, I wish I could tell her none of it matters, that she could have worn anything, or nothing, and they’d still find a way to make her the spectacle.
But she’s already slipping into the car, chin high, defiant. And I know, as I follow her in, that the only person in this house who understands what it means to survive humiliation is sitting right beside me.
The door shuts behind us and the driver pulls away, city lights and old stone blurring past the windows. Adriana sits rigid at my side, her arms folded, eyes fixed on the glass like she’s counting every mile away from this house.
For a while, neither of us says anything. The silence is tight, but it isn’t empty.
She breaks it first. “It’s not about the dress, you know.”
I glance over. “No?”
She shakes her head. “It could’ve been anything. They just want me uncomfortable. To remind me I don’t belong.” She picks at the edge of the silk, mouth set.
She’s not looking for comfort, just naming things for what they are.
“What do you know about the Romanovs?” Her tone is casual but there is intent to it.
I cock my head. “I assume you’d know better, since they’re an old family like yours.”
“I haven’t been in the city in a while, in case you don’t remember,” she reminds me.
I shrug. “There’s nothing much to know about them except that they’re pricks.”
She snorts. “Right.”
I frown. That sounded like a slight, but she doesn’t push it and neither do I.
“There’s just one thing you need to know,” I say leaning in, feeling her shiver. “I don’t like them.”
“Got it,” she says softly without meeting my gaze.
We ride the rest of the way in silence, headlights threading through the dusk, the city gathering itself for night. When the car stops in front of Maksim’s building, I turn to her. “Ready?” I ask.
She nods, jaw tight. “I have to be.”
I push open the door, step out, and offer my hand. She takes it, her fingers cool but steady, her eyes holding mine for a second longer than they need to.
“Let’s go,” she says.
