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"Thanks," I murmur, feeling a small weight lifted off my chest. , I can see the bonds of friendship clearly between these women, especially Anoushka and Vanya.
As the evening continues, I find myself mingling with Boris's family, realizing they're not as terrifying as I had imagined. They laugh, share stories, and even tease one another, just like any other family would.
However, amid the laughter and camaraderie, I can't help but long for a deeper connection with Boris, the man I'm now married to. For the timebeing, though, I'll focus on building relationships with his family and hope that, in time, we can become a real family—one bonded by love instead of obligation.
***
As the reception continues, I can't help but notice that Boris seems distant. Despite the smiles and laughtersurrounding us, he remains aloof, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for an escape.
"Hey," I approach him cautiously, "is everything all right?"
"Fine," he replies curtly, barely sparing me a glance before turning away to speak with someone else.
My stomach knots with unease as I watch him move through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries but never truly engaging with anyone. What could be bothering him so much? Is it our marriage or something else entirely?
When I see him slip out of the room, I can't help but follow. My curiosity and concern drive me to find out what's going on.
"Excuse me," I say to Anoushka as I step away from the festivities. She nods knowingly, her eyes following Boris's retreating figure.
I trail behind him, ducking into a dimly lit hallway just in time to overhear a hushed conversation between Boris and a man I don’t recognize.
“Gerald, please,” Boris implores. “Not today. I don’t want my wife to hear of this.”
“Your wife,” he almost spits. “Who is she, even? No breeding, no name. You could have married my daughter, and the Russo name alone would have taken you forward.”
“That was my intention, Mr. Russo. Our deal would have stood. Your daughter’s hand in marriage for an investment. However, you know the circumstances, and I would request that you do not insult my wife and the mother of my future child with regard to her background. It is irrelevant.”
There’s a short silence, and then Gerald Russo speaks.
"Your wedding is quite the spectacle," Gerald says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I must admit, I didn't expect you to go through with it."
"I owe it to Robin,” Boris says simply.
"Indeed, you do," Gerald agrees. "You owed it to Genevieve, too, didn’t you? My daughter is heartbroken, you know. She was looking forward to being your wife, and now she's left with nothing."
"Genevieve will be fine," Boris says defensively. "She deserves better than a marriage born out of obligation."
"Perhaps," Gerald concedes. "But you should know, I only attended this farce of a wedding to save face. Our families have been allies for generations, and I won't let your decision jeopardize that. But don't think for a moment that this doesn't sting."
"Understood," Boris replies tersely.
As they continue their conversation, I press my back against the wall and try to process what I've just learned. So, there was a broken marriage deal between Boris and Gerald. And now, I'm caught in the middle of it all.
My heart aches with empathy for Genevieve, even as I struggle with my own conflicting emotions. Did Boris choose me over her all because I was pregnant? Somewhere in my heart, I believed we might have had a connection too. If it's the latter, can we ever hope to build a real family together?
With a heavy heart, I decide to leave them be and return to the reception—my thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion, guilt, and longing.
***
Later that night, a single bulb flickers in the darkness, casting eerie shadows on the walls of our marital suite at a fancy hotel, a gift from Damien and Lev. I sit on the edge of the massive bed, my heart heavy with the knowledge of Boris's broken marriage deal with Gerald Russo's daughter.
I decide not to make an issue of it, at least for now. We both have enough on our plates, and I understand that neither of us asked for this arrangement. We're simply trying to make the best of a difficult situation.
"Robin," Boris calls from the doorway, his voice soft and tentative. "May I come in?"
"Of course," I reply, my own voice barely more than a whisper. “Where were you?”
He steps into the room and stands awkwardly near the door, avoiding my gaze. It's clear he's just as uncomfortable as I am with the reality of our wedding night.
