Page 26 of Bratva Bride
"No, I—it's fine," she said quickly. "If this is what you want—"
"What do you want?" I interrupted.
The question seemed to short-circuit something in her brain. She blinked at me, genuinely confused, like I'd spoken a language she didn't understand. Her lips parted, closed, parted again. No words came out.
"Anya." I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice low enough that Margot probably couldn't hear. "What do you want? Not what you think I want. Not what would be appropriate for a bratva wedding. What would make you feel—" I struggled for the right word. "—less like you're being put on display?"
Her throat worked as she swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Something simple. Something that doesn't make me feel like I'm—like I'm a thing to be looked at instead of a person."
The honesty of it, the quiet desperation, made my chest tight. I turned to Margot, who'd been standing frozen with the Vera Wang still on its hanger, clearly unsure how to navigate this deviation from script.
"Show us the simplest dress you have," I said. "No beading. No train. Nothing that requires a team of people to put on."
Margot's professional composure slipped for just a moment—surprise that a bratva boss was prioritizing the bride's comfort over spectacle. But she recovered quickly, carefully returning the Vera Wang to its garment bag like she was putting a child to bed.
"I have a few options that might work," she said. "More modern. Minimalist. Give me just a moment."
She disappeared into the back, leaving Anya and me in the private viewing room. The silence stretched, but it felt different than the careful distance we'd been maintaining. Less like avoidance, more like the quiet after a storm when the air finally cleared.
"You don't have to—" Anya started.
"I do," I interrupted. "You're going to be wearing this dress for hours. At a ceremony full of people you don't know, making vows you didn't choose. The least I can do is make sure you're not trapped in something that makes you feel worse."
She studied me with those intelligent eyes, and I could almost see her mind working—analyzing, cataloging, trying to understand what this meant. Whether it was genuine or manipulation. Whether I'd use this small kindness as leverage later.
Margot returned with three dresses, each dramatically simpler than the Vera Wang. We spent the next thirty minutes in a careful dance—Anya trying on options, stepping onto the viewing platform, studying herself in the three-way mirror while I watched from the settee. Each dress was better than the last, but none of them were right. Too structured. Too much detail. Still costumes rather than something she'd choose.
Then Margot brought out the Elie Saab.
It was barely there—just ivory silk that fell like water, clean lines that skimmed Anya's body without clinging, a neckline that was modest but elegant. No beading. No train. Nothing that screamed. The dress whispered instead, and what it said was that the woman wearing it was enough. Didn't need embellishment or armor or anything to make her more than what she already was.
Anya stepped onto the platform in bare feet, and I forgot how to breathe.
She looked like herself. Not Viktor Morozov's daughter, not a treaty bride, not a decoder or an asset or a thing to be used. Just Anya. Young and beautiful and finally, finally not hiding behind careful control.
The dress moved with her as she turned to see the back view in the mirror, the silk catching light and releasing it, the color warming her skin instead of washing her out. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders—Margot had insisted on taking it down from the severe bun, said it was important to see the full effect—and for the first time since I'd met her, Anya looked soft.
"This one," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She met my eyes in the mirror, and something passed between us. Recognition that I'd seen what she needed and given it to her without making her beg.
Her reflection smiled. Real smile, not the practiced one. Small, tentative, but genuine enough that her eyes warmed with it.
"This one," she agreed quietly.
Margot looked between us, probably calculating the lost commission on the Vera Wang, but professional enough to smile and nod. "An excellent choice. Simple elegance. I'll have it ready for Friday."
Chapter 6
Anya
Everylittlegirldreamsof their wedding day. Standing next to a man she loves, feeling like a princess. My dreams were never super-specific, but the feeling was clear.
Love.
That’s what I was meant to be feeling. Not whatever this was. Fear? Dread? Nerves? Anger?
All of those things and more.
