Page 19 of Poisoned Vows

Except I wasn’t supposed to have to!I want to scream at her. I’m not the daughter of an influential family born to this fate. I was supposed to have my freedom. I was only supposed to serve a term, not a life sentence.

I wish I knew why this was happening to me.

Marika is speaking to one of the sales associates, a pretty brunette woman with a cheerful smile on her face.

“Ah! Ms. Narokovna. We’re expecting you. You and Ms. Vasilev, come with me, please.”

She takes us back to a private dressing room, already filled with sample gowns. There are several pink velvet chairs scattered around a three-way mirror, a rack filled with sashes and veils, and a bar cart with the fixings for more mimosas on it.

“Feel free to enjoy,” the brunette woman—I see a name tag that says Anita on it—says, waving her hand at the bar cart. “I’ll be back in just a moment; I think Denise is helping you today.”

Denise, I find out a few minutes later, is the owner of the boutique—which makes sense, I suppose, since I’m marrying a Vasilev. I have no doubt she was informed just how much money was probably going to be spent here today.

I’d had reservations about it, but with the champagne fizzing in my blood, I start to wonder just what the most expensive dress hereis, and whether or not I might like it.

“Look at that.” Denise beams at me. “Anita already filled up a room for you. We’ll see if you like any of these, and if not, we’ve got a lot more for you to try. You have the run of the place, so whatever you see, feel free to let me know, and I’ll grab it for you.”

I realize as she’s speaking what she means—why the rest of the store is empty. At first, I just thought we had the first appointment of the day, but then it dawns on me that the store has been closed for us. This is aprivateappointment. I literally have the run of the boutique.

Why is he doing this?I don’t understand. I can’t understand his motivations for marrying me at all, but spoiling me like this? It makes no fucking sense. He could have sent his personal assistant to give someone my measurements, pick something out, and told me to wear it.

I don’t understand Nikolai Vasilev at all, and the more I realize that, the more terrified I am of him. I can’t fight against what I don’t understand.

“You have a lovely figure. I can’t think of anything that won’t look good on you,” Denise praises as I strip out of my jeans and top and stand there anxiously while she takes the first dress off of the hanger. I’m wearing borrowed underwear, too, which feels uncomfortable, but at least they’re clean. Marika is apparently almost my cup size—the bra only gapes a little at the corners. Strapless, which was thoughtful, considering she knew we’d be shopping for wedding dresses.

Under other circumstances, I might actually like her. I might want to be her friend—although I’ve neverhada friend, so I wouldn’t even really know how to go about it. But I can’t let myself forget that she’s Nikolai’s sister. She’s not my ally, no matter how kind she seems.

I step into the first dress Denise holds out for me, a slinky off-white satin gown that clings to me, highlighting just how very thin I am. I know she was bullshitting me when she said I have a lovely figure—there are plenty of silhouettes that won’t suit me. But I’m here with Vasilev money, so she’s going to suck up to me.

It feels strange. I’ve never been in that sort of position. I’m not sure I like it.

But if I’m marrying Nikolai, I’m going to have to get used to it.

I don’t hate the dress. The neckline drapes over my slight cleavage, the gathered straps sitting flatteringly on either side of my sharp collarbones, and the skirt pools around my feet. I look a bit like a marble statue in it, I think, and I don’t mind it.

It makes me think of what Nikolai said about me last night—calling me art so beautiful that I should only be seen by one set of eyes—and just as quickly, I’m not so sure I like it any longer.

Denise does up the last of the buttons in the back, clipping it so that it fits me perfectly, and then opens the door. “Go look in the mirror,” she encourages, and I hear Marika’s soft intake of breath as I step out.

“Oh, you look beautiful!” she exclaims, her mimosa glass tilting a little as she leans forward to look at me. “Try on a veil with it!”

Denise gets out a simple fingertip-length veil with a raw edge, sliding the comb into my hair as I stand in front of the mirror. I look like a bride; there’s no doubt about that. It’s magazine-perfect.

“Try on a few others,” Marika encourages, seemingly realizing that I’m on the verge of saying this is the one just to be finished with the entire ordeal. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it anyway, but for some reason, I feel bad disappointing her.

So I go back into the room, let Denise take me out of the satin gown, and lace me into a strapless, corset-backed gown with a full skirt and lace applique spilling from the strapless bodice down the heavy satin skirt.

I don’t like this one as much. The silhouette is too much over me, overwhelming my slender frame, swallowing me up. It occurs to me that maybe I should choose one like this instead. That perhaps I shouldn’t give Nikolai the satisfaction of seeing me in a dress as perfect as the first one.

“I liked the first one better,” Marika says pensively when I walk out. “Maybe try something with a more slender silhouette, but all lace? See how you feel about that?”

In the end, it comes down to three dresses—the draped satin one I tried on first, an all-lace pure white gown with scalloped lace straps, a sweetheart neckline and a trumpet skirt, and a strapless mermaid gown that’s cream-colored heavy satin, with lace around the edge of the skirt. I try on all three of them again, at Marika’s urging, and end up with the one I tried on first, along with the raw-edged veil Denise had suggested with it.

I didn’t bother looking at any of the price tags. My jaw almost hits the floor when, after taking my measurements, Denise tells Marika the price of what seems like such a simple dress. But Marika whips out a heavy black credit card without blinking, handing it to Denise, and before I know it, she’s whisked me out of the shop and onto the sidewalk.

“We should look for shoes next. Jewelry, maybe? You should have a piece for your something new. And then some clothes—I know Niki was sending men to get your old things, but you should pick out something new—”

She keeps chattering as we walk down the sidewalk, but my mind has already run off in a different direction. It occurs to me that we’re downtown, in the middle of the city, a place I’ve never been allowed out into before. What’s stopping me from simply running away? I don’t have any money on me, but I could hitchhike, if I got far enough. It’s not the safest plan of action, but is getting murdered by a person who picks up hitchhikers really worse than marrying the Vasilev heir?

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