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“Not by choice.”
“And what other choice did you have?” she counters. “My son may not fully keep me in the loop, but I have my eyes and ears everywhere,radnaya. Your father sold you to Spiridakos to be sold at auction where he would have made hundreds of millions of dollars for your virginity and last name. Would you rather have that or safety and security?”
“Neither.” I lift my chin at her. “I’d rather be free. To leave behind the name I carry. It means nothing to me. Not now and not ever.”
There’s pity in her gaze as she stares at me. I hate pity.
“After everything you have endured.” She shakes her head. “You cannot be that naïve to believe that you can escape who you are.”
“And who is that?” I snap. “An unloved daughter? A forgotten child? An orphan? A captive? A pawn? Those are the names your son has given me. The ones he uses to remind me of my place.”
“Then show him that you don’t belong to those names.”
“And what names belong to me?” I ask her, tears pushing at the back of my eyes.
Her face lights up at my question, her gaze determined. “Queen.”
“Not sure that’s how your son sees me.”
“No matter your rocky start, Vanya.” She leans in and takes my hand in hers. “You are to be his wife and he will treat you with the respect that title deserves.”
Okay.
“Like he did today?” I cock my head to the side and stare at her. “That is the respect the wife of a Volkov deserves? The party cock blower planning the wedding? Picking out my dress without consulting me? If that’s your idea of respect, you should see a therapist.”
I expect her to be mad at my words. To glare at me, maybe even slap me for disrespecting her opinion. Maybe she will tear me down like my mother used to with her drunken words. Instead, she smiles brighter. There is a twinkle in her eyes that sets me on edge.
“Did you think that maybe he just likes to rile you up?”
“That’s stupid,” I deadpan. “What are we? In the third grade? If he pulls my hair does that mean he likes me?” I can feel my cheeks heating at those words. He has pulled my hair. Many times. And I enjoyed it.
A knowing look spreads across her face. She looks as if she is about to say something, but luck is on my side because Yelena chooses that time to waltz back to the table with the waiter not far behind her.
Soon we are too busy stuffing our faces to talk, which is a welcome reprieve. I don’t want to talk about Adrian or the upcoming wedding that I still don’t have a date for. I also don’t want to think about what it means to be his wife because it sure as hell wasn’t fun being his captive.
That’s not entirely true, but I digress.
Instead, I savor the scrumptious meal in front of me. The table is laden with several varieties of pelmeni, a Russian dumpling, and Shaslik, kebabs. There is soup and blinis and piroshkies followed by coffee and honey cake. By the time we are heading out the door, I am so full I feel as if I will burst.
The short drive to their house is filled with laughter and show tunes as Yelena shows off her talent for music. Svetlana remains silent, but I see her smiling at her daughter like she is the sun. A lump forms in my throat. My mother never once smiled at me like that. Like I meant something to her.
Sensing my gaze, Svetlana’s eyes drift to me and she gives me a soft, reassuring smile. A mother’s smile and it takes everything within me not to start bawling. I’ve never had this before. A sense of belonging and family. It comforts me to know that at least something good will come of this marriage.
I say goodbye to Svetlana and Yelena with promises that I will see them soon. Patiently, I wait inside the SUV while Anton walks them to their door. Sasha, the big burly asshole from the parking garage, is busy scrolling on his phone. Not that I want to make conversation with him.
He intimidates me.
Sighing, I stare out the window at the sidewalk and watch as people walk by without a care in the world. No one can see my suffering or heartache. No one can hear my cries. Even if they could, the world is a cold place. They will simply turn a blind eye.
Then, something catches my attention.
A girl.
She’s at least ten years old with blonde hair and a cute button nose. Pulling her along behind him is a scrawny man in a business suit. He looks to be in a hurry, but the girl could care less because she keeps stopping to gaze at flowers or the occasional store window front.
Ada?
“Wait,” I call as I push the door to the SUV open in a hurry, ignoring Sasha’s cursing as I follow after them. They’d ducked into a kid’s clothing boutique a few doors down. “Wait.”
