And standing front and center, wearing her best dress—a navy blue number with a brooch at the collar—and the most self-satisfied expression I've ever seen, is Babushka.
"Surprise, dorogaya!" She opens her arms wide, and I'm pulled into a hug that smells like her perfume—roses and powder. "We throw you proper wedding reception! Like I say, you need party! You need celebration!"
"But—we—I don't—" I pull back, looking at Victor, who is suspiciously not surprised. "Did you know about this?"
"I may have had some advance warning."
"Some advance warning? Victor!" I smack his arm. "You knew! You knew and you didn't tell me!"
"Your mother called me three days ago. Babushka called me two days ago. Margot texted me yesterday with a final headcount and seating chart." He's fighting a smile now, losing the battle. "I was under strict orders not to tell you."
"I'm going to kill all of you."
"You love us," Margot says, appearing with champagne glasses. Real crystal, not plastic. The champagne is already poured, bubbles rising in perfect straight lines. "Admit it."
I want to be mad.
I really do.
But I'm looking around the room and seeing everyone I care about—my parents beaming by the kitchen door, Dad's arm around Mom's waist, both of them looking so happy they might burst.
My sisters looking ridiculously proud of themselves, Amelia practically bouncing on her heels—her new husband Declan in the corner talking to a couple, likely giving financial advice. Victor's friends Roman and Calli standing near the cake, both tan and glowing from what must have been an incredible Thailand honeymoon.
Christian and Lucia by the window, Lucia's hand in Christian's, both of them smiling at us. And approximately fifteen other people I recognize from various parts of my life, all dressed up, all here to celebrate us.
And in the corner, in a cat carrier decorated with white ribbons and tiny bells, is Rasputin.
Wearing a tiny tuxedo.
Complete with a bow tie.
Of course.
"Is that—" I point, my voice coming out a squeak. "Is Rasputin wearing formal wear?"
"Is New Year's Eve," Babushka says, like this explains everything. Her accent is thicker than usual, the way it gets when she's excited. "He must look nice for wedding reception. Is special occasion!"
"He's a cat."
"He is family! Family dresses nice!" She gestures at Rasputin, who is glaring at everyone from inside his carrier, his yellow eyes narrowed, the tuxedo making him look like a tiny, furry mobster. "See? Very handsome. Like little James Bond."
"He looks like he's plotting murder."
"He is always plotting murder. Is cat. But tonight, he plots murder in style."
Victor's definitely laughing now, his shoulders shaking, and I elbow him in the ribs. "This is your fault."
"How is this my fault?"
"You encouraged her! You enabled the cat formal wear!"
"In my defense, I thought it was adorable."
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side. I'm also on the side of cats in tuxedos." He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist, his body warm against mine. "Besides, you have to admit—this is pretty incredible."
It is.
