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Two, I feel so beautiful. So feminine at last.
I might be a tomboy, but I’ve always dreamed about wearing a wedding dress and dolling up.
There’s a whole makeup case with items that I don’t even know what to do with. I go for the simple things because I don’t really know how to use the others. I put on some mascara and blush, and I finish with soft pink lipstick.
Those are the only things I trust myself with or else I’ll paint my face like a clown.
There’s also a jewelry set that matches the green ring he showed me earlier—a dazzling necklace, bracelet, and earrings.
He even thought to bring earrings that don’t need piercings since mine have long since closed.
After I put them on, I stand up and stare at the mirror.
I almost don’t recognize myself. I look so different from my male persona.
The dress hugs my waist and falls to the floor in an extravagance of lace, satin, and pearls sewn to the fabric.
It looks so elegant and stunning.
Even my face has a soft, more feminine feel than usual. My hair, though…I grab the huge flower bouquet, pull out some rose stems, and quickly form a small crown. Then I put on the veil and place it on top.
I smile at my reflection. I’m finally me.
After years of hiding behind another persona, today, I get to be myself.
A knock sounds on the door and Kirill’s booming voice follows, “Are you done yet?”
“Yeah! Be right there.” I stumble when I try to walk in the shoes. They’re not high heels, but they’re women's shoes.
I can’t believe I forgot how to walk in women’s shoes.
The horror.
After I spray some perfume he brought, something soft and flowery, I inhale deeply and exit the bedroom. The man from earlier is sitting at the dining table with some papers in front of him, but that’s not what makes me stop.
It’s the man who’s waiting at the front of the room, who freezes upon seeing me.
Astonishment and awe fill Kirill’s expression, and his icy eyes turn to liquid blue as his eyes follows my every step.
Once I’m across from him, I clear my throat. “How do I look?”
He doesn’t answer.
I shift. “I know it’s weird. I might have caused myself a bit of whiplash, too, and—”
“You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
My breath gets stuck at the base of my throat, and I have to hold back tears. Kirill grabs my hand. “Let’s get this over with so I can unwrap you.”
I suppress a laugh as he leads me to the man at the table, and we sit opposite him.
I can’t stop looking at my fingers threaded into Kirill’s. Is it weird that we’re getting married, but this is the first time he’s held my hand this way?
“Make it quick,” he tells the man.
“I can just ask for consent, and then you both sign the certificate,” he replies with a Russian accent.
“Let’s do that.”
“We need two witnesses.”
Kirill taps something in his phone and a few seconds later, the door opens. I swallow thickly as Viktor strides inside then stops short upon seeing me.
My face must be different shades of red. Why did it have to be Viktor of all people? Yes, Kirill trusts him the most, but how am I supposed to react when he’s looking at me as if I’m a ghost?
“What’s the meaning of this?” Viktor asks, staring between us.
“I’m marrying, Sasha.” Kirill announces ever so casually. “Be a witness.”
“What the fuck—”
“Sit the fuck down and be a witness, Viktor.” Kirill orders with no patience whatsoever.
He narrows his eyes on me then settles beside the man who’s been watching the scene with careful quietness.
“Lipovsky, you little fuck,” Viktor continues grilling me with his gaze. “You’re a woman?”
“She obviously is, and watch your fucking tone when you speak to my wife.”
Butterflies erupt at the bottom of my stomach and spread throughout my body.
Kirill called me his wife.
His. Wife.
“I still don’t understand what’s going on,” Viktor continues. “I need an explanation.”
“Later. For now, shut it and be a witness.” Kirill turns to the man. “Proceed”
“We need another witness.”
“You can be one. Now, go.”
The older man nods. “Do you, Kirill Morozov, take Aleksandra Lipovsky—”
“Ivanova,” I whisper and stare at Kirill. “My name is Aleksandra Ivanova.”
If we’re going to get married, he needs to know my real name. We’re going to share our lives now, and that means trusting each other.
Kirill’s eyes don’t shine with recognition at hearing the last name, and that right there is proof that he had nothing to do with my family’s death.
Instead, he squeezes my hand in his. “You heard her. It’s Aleksandra Ivanova.”
“We will need an ID for that…”
“I’ll get it to you later. Continue.”
The man clears his throat. “Do you, Kirill Morozov, take Aleksandra Ivanova as your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
