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My grandmother, Anja, squinted at me, her wrinkled face screwed into a scowl. Her perfume assaulted my senses, as loud and obnoxious as the gaudy pink chinchilla shawl (real) that draped over her pointy shoulders. An alabaster silk dress, a dozen strings of pearls (also real), and Dior ballet flats completed the grandmother-of-the-bride look. Every detail of her appearance had been meticulously planned, just like my wedding.
Anja had worked closely with a high-end designer to bring to life her vision of my wedding dress. The end product was a mermaid-silhouette lace Swarovski dress with a sheer nine-foot veil that covered my face. The whole thing sparkled like the moon. It was flamboyant, gaudy, and deliberately crafted to ensure everyone in the room knew how much money we had.
I hated it.
Anja promised it had been an accident (the designer’s mistake, of course) that the dress was made two sizes too small. When I asked if it could be resized, she suggested I resize my calorie count instead. For the next three months, my meals were chosen for me, presented to me on tiny plates, and forced down my throat. You see, instead of the dress being created for me, I was being molded into the ideal silhouette for the dress.
As was my life.
In those three months, I lost my feminine curves, half my hair, and all the color in my cheeks. I’d also lost my future, my hope, and any chance of creating my own identity.
I’d been promised to a very powerful man for no other reason than to secure the longevity of the corrupted world I’d been born into.
All the dreams I’d had as a little girl, those of fairy tales and happy endings, were taken from me by a handful of men over a bottle of brandy. My fate was decided for me, just like that. The dreams I’d once had now hovered over me like a storm cloud, taunting me, teasing me, reminding me what could have been.
To my shock, Anja didn’t notice the vomit on my dress. Probably because she was too distracted by the repulsive odor wafting from the bathroom behind me. Disgusted, she shook her head in disapproval, her perfect pearl earrings glinting in the light.
My stomach sank. No matter how much I despised my grandmother, her constant disappointment in me felt like a knife in the gut.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, then yelled for “the makeup girl.” No name, no identity, no importance other than to turn me from ugly to pretty.
After my makeup had been reapplied and my hair quickly smoothed again, Anja grabbed my arm, digging her long acrylic nails into my bicep. Baby pink, like the roses she’d chosen for me.
“Hurry,” she hissed, dragging me across the room. “They’re waiting.”
I abruptly stopped. “Wait. My heels...”
Not perfect, not perfect, not perfect ...
“They’re still in the bathroom.”
“Oh my God, Aleks.” Anja raised her hand to slap me but recoiled, apparently deciding there were too many prying eyes. “Stay here. Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.”
I did as I was told, my hands clasped in front of me, my gaze on the floor.
I could hear the music in the nave, a fifteen-piece chamber orchestra. I could smell the long-stemmed pink roses, hundreds that had been flown in from all over the world. All around me, everything was black, white, and pink. Those were the colors that were chosen for the highly publicized, highly gossiped-about social event of the season.
While most brides spend their wedding weekend surrounded by friends and family, I did not. I was quarantined from the bridal party, and basically anyone who was not my grandmother or “the staff.”
Due to security threats, they’d told me, though I knew this was a lie.
They’d separated me because they didn’t trust me, plain and simple. Looking back, I wondered if perhaps they knew what I was capable of before I did.
Everything was timed so that I wouldn’t have to be in the same room as anyone else. The rehearsal dinner was held at a private chateau that resembled a medieval castle. The polished stone interior dripped with chandeliers, pink roses, and white drapery.
The menu was prepared by a world-renowned chef and his team, who had been flown in from Italy. The most expensive wines and champagnes were served in gold-rimmed crystal glasses.
While the waitstaff took drink orders, I was held in a back room until everyone was seated. Then I was escorted into the banquet hall by two of my father’s men, where my soon-to-be husband sat at the head table, dead behind the eyes. I’d been presented like some rare jewel that you could only look at but not touch. This ridiculous display only added to the gossip and allure of the wedding.
Once Anja secured my two-sizes-too-small heels, I was guided to the cathedral foyer where twelve bridesmaids and groomsmen waited for my arrival. Like sentinels, they stood in parallel lines, tall, silent, and motionless—as instructed. The women clasped bouquets of roses, and the men stood with their hands folded behind their backs.
Twenty-four pairs of eyes turned to me.
I didn’t know a single one of these people. They studied me with ice-cold expressions, some appearing fearful that this could happen to them, others envious.
Why her? Why not me?they probably thought.
If only they knew I would trade my soul for freedom in an instant.
