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Weddings as a whole are unnecessary. They’re an extravagant show of love and commitment. The dress, the flowers, the tux, the cake… it’s all fuss and drama.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile.
I stare at him like he’s hiding answers, trying to remember the reasoning that led me to this moment. I had a good reason for saying yes to his proposal, didn’t I?
It’s only when I feel the metal digging into my fingers that I realize I’m clutching my pendant so hard that I’m in danger of cutting my palm open.
I feel Konstantin’s eyes on me. His usual smile is laced with concern. He bends down toward me while Yan talks Misha through the papers and the legal process of registering our marriage.
“Just breathe,” Konstantin tells me. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“How do you know that?” I whisper back.
“Because you’ll be Mrs. Misha Orlov. He will take care of you. He always does.”
Maybe in some ways. Definitely not in others.
But I don’t say that. I just nod back at him and pretend like I’m not on the edge of a panic attack. I pray that my pendant will give me one more miracle.
I’m just not sure what kind of miracle I’m asking for.
33
MISHA
“Congratulations, brother,” Konstantin says, pulling me in for a hug and slapping my back.
I accept his congratulations silently. My eyes remain fixed on my new bride.
Paige is standing by the double doors of the greenhouse, staring off into the dark lawn beyond. She hasn’t said a word since she signed her name on the dotted line and we officially became husband and wife.
“I’ll, uh… leave you to it,” he says, clapping me on the arm one more time before he slips out of the greenhouse. Yan and Rada go with him.
And then we’re alone.
When I hear the glass doors click shut, I stride over to Paige. She stiffens, but keeps her gaze directed forward. She’s having a hard time meeting my eyes.
“I’d offer you some champagne, but—”
“I don’t want anything,” she answers abruptly, as if she’s annoyed I broke the silence.
She pivots toward me slowly. Her cheeks are flushed. It could be from excitement, but judging from the shadow over her eyes, I’m guessing it’s something more like anxiety.
“You should sit down.”
“No.”
I shrug. For once, I’m uninterested in pushing her. She looks fragile.
“Is that chamomile?” she asks out of nowhere, glancing towards the little white flowers with the yellow buds clustered into the corner.
“I think so.” She’s dissociating. Looking for anything to distract from what just happened.
“I don’t like chamomile,” she murmurs vaguely. Then her eyes land on me and sharpen. “Konstantin is your cousin?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a sister and a mother. And a brother who passed away.” She speaks as though she’s taking notes in her head. Actually, it’s more like she’s making little ticks next to the notes she’s already made in her head. Testing herself. The way you’d make note of unexploded bombs in a minefield so you know where to tread and where to avoid.
