1
ANYA
The sun sits highover the pier, turning the water into a sheet of broken glass.
I sit at a table outside Marea, one ankle crossed over the other, my white linen dress fluttering around my thighs every time the sea breeze rolls in. The restaurant is crowded, but our table has the best view: blue water, white boats, polished railings, rich men pretending they came here for lunch and not to be seen.
I know that game well.
My whole life has been lived around people who pretend.
Across from me, Irina reaches for my hand for the third time in ten minutes. “Let me see it again,” she says.
I sigh like I’m bored, but I still lift my hand.
The diamond catches the sunlight immediately. A perfect oval stone, clean and bright, set on a thin platinum band. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of ring that says a man did not ask for your hand. He bought the right to it.
Irina gasps anyway. “Anya, it’s beautiful.”
“It should be,” Katya says, leaning closer. “Dmitri Volkov has enough money to buy the whole pier.”
I smile and tilt my hand slightly, watching the diamond throw light across the table.
“He has taste,” I say.
That makes them laugh.
I smile wider, because I know what they see when they look at me.
The pretty bride. The lucky girl.
The one who’s marrying into the Volkov family in two weeks.
I’ve always been pretty. Not sweet-pretty or soft-pretty. The kind of pretty people notice before I speak. Pale blonde hair, clear skin, wide blue eyes, a mouth men stare at a second too long before remembering themselves.
In our world, beauty is not everything, but it helps. It makes men kinder when they want something. It makes women crueler when they think you have too much. It makes doors open before anyone asks whether you deserve to walk through them.
And now, with Dmitri’s ring on my finger, every door is open.
Almost.
“Two weeks,” Lena says, lifting her champagne flute. “You must be nervous.”
I look at the water instead of answering right away.
Am I nervous?
I should be. Every bride is supposed to be nervous. That’s what women say, with shining eyes and hands pressed to their chests. But I’ve been preparing for this marriage for so long that it feels less like a beginning and more like a role I’ve finally been allowed to step into.
Dmitri and I grew up near each other. Not together, exactly. Not as equals.
The Volkovs lived behind gates, with guards at every entrance and cars that moved like black shadows through the city. My family lived close enough to be useful, but never close enough to belong.
My father, Sergei Sokolov, served under Dmitri’s father for most of his life. He was loyal, obedient, and careful. An underling. A man who carried orders from more powerful men and called it honor.
Because of him, I learned early where we stood.
The Volkovs ruled.
