The door slammed open so hard the IV stand rattled. You whirled, your chest bouncing with the sudden motion. In the doorway stood a mountain of a man, shoulders like a wall, a heavy black mustache bristling under a hooked nose. His skull gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, shaved to the skin, a crown of menace above an immaculate dark suit.
He did not smile. He did not even blink. His voice rolled out like gravel dragged across steel—deep, accented, commanding.
“Ah. Good. You are awake.” His eyes raked over you with a weight that made your stomach twist. “Come now, Yulia. Get dressed. We must leave.”
You gaped at Andrea, then the doctor, your throat working.
The doctor cleared his throat quickly. “Ah—Miss Glinka, this is your fiancé. Victor Abramov.”
The name struck like a gavel.
“And you expect me to marry this man!?” Your voice cracked into a shrill, unfamiliar soprano. Your tiny fists balled, delicate knuckles whitening against the too-soft flesh of your hands.
Victor did not flinch. He strode into the room, each step a thunderclap of authority. “No. I do not expect. I demand. We already had these arguments—while you slept. And you lost.” His mustache twitched with contempt. “Now get dressed. I am in a hurry.”
The accent was so close to your own, the rhythm almost mocking—your head swam with the cruel parody of it.
Andrea surged to her feet. “Will you give it a rest!” Her voice cracked, then steadied. “Mr. Abramov. Doctor. Both of you—out. One hour. Alone. I’ll help her get dressed.”
For a moment Victor did not move. His glare slid from Andrea, to you, then to the doctor. At last, a single curt nod. “One hour.” He pivoted, broad shoulders filling the frame, and disappeared into the corridor with the doctor trailing like a servant. The door clicked shut.
You collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving. Your hands—slender, manicured, trembling—pressed against your temples. “Andrea… please. Tell me this is a nightmare. Tell me I’m still in a coma. You seriously—seriously—didn’t agree to marry me off to that man? To live with him? To be his wife?” The words scraped raw from your throat in Yulia’s thickly accented soprano, every syllable dripping disbelief.
Andrea turned away, opening the wardrobe with shaking hands. “Look. I know how it sounds. But think about it.” Hangers rattled as she searched. “You’re alive. Alive, damn it. And this way—you stay. You see Megan and Ben. You get to watch them grow up.” She glanced back at you, eyes brimming. “Are you telling me that before the accident, if you were given this choice, you wouldn’t pay that price to stay in their lives? To stay with me?”
Your chest burned. Breath caught in your throat. “And what the hell do we tell Megan and Ben, huh? That Daddy’s a woman now—and married to another guy?” Your voice cracked. “That will screw them up for life!”
Andrea’s hands faltered on the hanger. “I know.” Her voice broke. “They’ve already been told their daddy passed away. Later—after things settle—we’ll… we’ll find a way. Maybe you’ll be a friend of mine. Or a cousin. Something.” She shook her head and pulled out an outfit.
She laid the clothes on the bed like a costume for execution. Black lace panties. A bra too small for the heavy breasts crushing your ribs. A long-sleeved leopard-print Lycra mini-dress with a plunging neckline that bared a canyon of cleavage, hem so short it barely covered your ass. Open-toed pumps with six-inch chunky heels, patterned in the same loud print, balanced on tall platforms.
You recoiled. “You cannot be serious.”
Andrea’s jaw set. Her hands trembled as she pulled you upright. She slid the panties up your shaking legs, hooked the bra tight across your chest. The breasts shifted, pressed, suffocated you. The Lycra clung to your body like a skin, exaggerating every curve, flaunting every inch.
Andrea knelt, buckling the pumps onto your slender feet. When you stood, your knees wobbled. The heels tilted your hips forward, **** your body into a sway that felt foreign and obscene.
Gold hoops tugged your ears with every movement. Bangles jangled along your wrists until each twitch of your hands rattled metallic. Andrea pressed a leopard-print clutch into your manicured grip.
From it, she drew mascara, eyeshadow, lipstick the shade of raw desire. Patiently, she showed you how to stroke the brush through your lashes, smear shadow across your lids, glide the fat stick of lipstick over your swollen lips until they gleamed wet and red.
When she finally stepped back, pale and tight, she nodded toward the mirror. “Look.”
You lifted your chin. The woman who stared back was a stranger, a caricature, a fantasy dragged into the flesh. Leopard print, glittering gold, towering heels, painted lips.
A bride for Abramov.
And your heart broke against the reflection.
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