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“Would you like me to come with you?”
Sandra arches a brow and grins. “Are you sure? You keep telling me you’re afraid of my father.”
“The man doesn’t like me. I doubt we’ll ever get along. His blessing was given very begrudgingly, and he hasn’t let me forget it for a minute.”
“That’s just how fathers-in-law are.”
“Regardless, I’m willing to endure an afternoon with him if it’d make you happy.”
Sandra pats my cheek and giggles. “That’s so sweet, but…”
“But what?”
“I think your brothers might actually have plans for you.”
I frown. “What?”
At this exact moment, a taxi screeches around the corner. It pulls up right next to us on the sidewalk. In the blink of an eye, my brothers barrel out of the vehicle. Samuil and Roman grab me by the arms while Damien pops the trunks. From behind the wheel, Leo rolls down the window.
“Surprise!” he says. He looks much too happy about this.
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” I snap, fighting them half-heartedly. “Let go of me.”
“We’re running late,” Damien explains.
“For what?”
“Your bachelor party, obviously,” Samuil says with a chuckle. “The wedding’s a couple weeks away. We have to give you a proper send off.”
“By putting me in the trunk?”
Sandra throws her head back and laughs. “That might have been my idea. I wanted a little payback before we officially tied the knot.”
“You wound me, woman,” I say dryly as my brothers shove me into the back of the car. “Don’t you dare close that lid.”
“Or what?” Roman teases.
“I’m your boss. I’ll fire you.”
“Like you could ever replace us.”
“Have a fun time, honey,” Sandra says, daring to toss me a cheeky wink. “Try not to cause too much trouble.”
“Sandy, wait a second—”
They shut the lid on me. I’m suddenly engulfed in darkness. I’d normally be bitter about getting a taste of my own medicine, but there’s something almost humorous about the whole ordeal. Let it never be said I can’t take a joke.
Chapter 41
Sandra
Inever wanted a big wedding. Growing up, I wasn’t the type of girl who dreamed about flowing white dresses, enough flowers to open a florist shop, or exorbitantly expensive multi-tier cakes. I’m perfectly content with what I have—my family in attendance and my man standing proudly at the altar.
We’re in a small chapel, tucked away in one of the quieter, more peaceful corners of the city. I’m dressed in the same wedding dress Mom wore when she married Dad, the very same veil on my head. There are no words to describe how honored I am to wear it. I hope one day, I get to pass it on to my own daughter to wear at her wedding, and perhaps even my granddaughter after her. Little things like these, full of sentiment and love, are how traditions are born.
Dad and I stand just in front of the main entrance into the chapel. Everyone’s taken their seats, and the music is beginning to swell. I know he had his reservations when I first agreed to marry Andrei, but instead of bitterness, Dad smiles at me with pride.
“You’re just as beautiful as your mother on her wedding day,” he tells me as he offers me his elbow.
