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I must have zoned out again. “Sorry, what?” I ask.
The ripple of laughter that rolls through the audience automatically brings heat to my face.
“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous on your wedding day,” the officiant says comfortingly, his amusement kind and assuming. “Let’s try again. Dani, repeat after me. “I, Danielle Richelieu, take Mikhail Sidorov to be my lawfully wedded husband.”
“I, Danielle Richelieu, take Mikhail Sidorov to be my lawfully wedded husband,” I repeat, my lips numbing with the traitorous words.
“To have and to hold… Dani, to have and to hold…”
“To have and to hold…” I rush quickly, realizing I’m doing a terrible job of following along.
“Until death do us part—”
“Until death do us part.”
Cheers erupt from the crowd as I make it through my minimal part. And a moment later, my heart breaks into a sprint as the officiant says the words I’ve been dreading most of all.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. Mr. Sidorov, you may kiss your bride.”
A fresh round of applause fills the ornate conference room as Mikhail’s arm snakes around my waist and pulls me forcefully against his body. Then he dips me into a showy backbend that makes my stomach muscles scream.
And there’s nowhere to run, no way to escape as he covers my lips with his hot, chapped ones, his tongue diving between my teeth before I can stop him. Palms planted firmly on his chest, I try my best not to struggle visibly, though every cell in my body is cringing viscerally.
How in the hell am I supposed to endure a lifetime of this?
Dear god, what have I done?
Finally, after an agonizing and entirely indecent amount of time, Mikhail puts me back on my feet. And he raises our hands in the air, our fingers intertwined, as if we’ve both just won some great victory.
The announcement’s made that Mikhail and I will be taking a few moments to sign our license while our guests can adjourn to the banquet room. And as Mikhail guides me back down the aisle, our guests toss celebratory rice in the air.
I keep my head low, my eyes on the ground, and when we finally make it back into the hallway, I release a breath of relief. What’s done is done. There’s no going back now. And somehow, having that decision, that dangling option removed from above my head, helps calm my nerves. I have plenty more to dread today. But at least the ceremony is over and done with.
And as Mikhail and I sit in a quiet room with only the officiant and my parents as witnesses, I can fool myself that I’m through the worst of it. Signing a piece of paper feels simple after that.
Then I’m whisked into our reception and a roomful of waiting guests, all seated and clinking their glasses, demanding another kiss from us. Mikhail is more than happy to oblige, a wide grin spreading his dry lips before he pulls me close to invade my mouth once again.
And this time, when we break apart, he keeps me firmly close for a moment longer as he murmurs under his breath, “I think you can do better than that, Dani. I didn’t agree to marry a dead fish.”
My stomach knots, and I don’t know how to respond. But he doesn’t seem to require an answer. Instead, he releases my waist and takes my hand as he leads me toward our sweetheart table.
And as we weave through countless tables of guests, they turn in their seats to offer a mind-numbing stream of congratulations that sound more like condolences to me. I let Mikhail do the talking, offering polite thank-yous when necessary. And finally, we make it to the front of the room.
Two champagne flutes sit by our Michelin Star meals, his filled with sparkling wine, mine with a convincing mocktail. God, what I wouldn’t give for some actual alcohol today. I would love more than anything to drink until I can’t feel anything.
But I can’t, not with the baby.
Thankfully, my brain seems to be doing a pretty decent job of its own self-induced anesthesia, and I suspect I won’t have to remember or relive many of the details of this day.
We settle into our seats, and my dad gives a convincingly heartwarming speech about the significance of a daughter’s wedding day in a father’s life. How he couldn’t have hoped for a better man than Mikhail to take care of his little girl.
The audience applauds wildly, and then he invites them all to eat, drink, and be merry.
I do the first with a single-minded determination, cutting into my chicken dish with more enthusiasm than I’ve shown all day. And I groan with appreciation at the exquisite catering. This is the one thing I’m determined to enjoy today.
“You ought to slow down, wife,” Mikhail says, his lips curling into a smile that I’m quickly identifying as his public mask of amusement. “If you keep eating like that, you’re going to be fat in no time.”
I hum contentedly, giving him a cheeky smile in return before I take another massive bite. And I silently celebrate the subtle twitch at the corner of his eye. I shouldn’t antagonize him. I know that. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Not today of all days, when I’ve betrayed Efrem’s memory more deeply than I ever thought I could. Tomorrow, I can find a way to make peace.
