shopping!

The next morning you rose earlier than usual, the sunlight spilling through the curtains and tracing golden warmth across your bare arms. When you slid out of bed and caught your reflection, it startled you again—Yulia’s reflection, not your own. Long honey-blonde hair, thick and glossy, fell over your shoulders, the same hair you’d seen in countless selfies of hers. Her face was sculpted with soft Slavic angles, pouty lips that looked painted even bare, her figure generous and unapologetically curvaceous. Every curve showed in the fitted camisole and panties you had slept in, and even standing still you looked like a woman posing.

Your body hummed with restless energy. Your first thought wasn’t Victor, wasn’t even Andrea’s face waiting at the end of the day—it was the intoxicating possibility of walking through boutiques like you belonged there, like you were one of those women whose beauty demanded attention the moment they crossed a threshold. Then you quickly caught yourself: No, it’s Andrea. I just want her to see how well I’ve adapted. That’s all.

Victor’s “wardrobe” choices still puzzled you. Gone were the gaudy loudness of Yulia’s old life—the neon pinks, the tacky leopard print, the sequins that belonged more to a nightclub than daylight. Instead, his selections spoke in low tones of sex and polish. Short skirts that whispered along your thighs, dresses slit high enough that crossing your legs became an act of theater, and blouses so form-fitting they seemed engineered for seduction. Even the handful of pants were laughably tight, more a dare than clothing, the sort of cut that would turn a grocery run into a scene.

You dressed carefully, choosing the snug beige top and the tight banded skirt that hugged your hips and thighs—an outfit you had seen her photographed in, paired with a white jacket that hung casually off your shoulders. When you stepped out into the city, designer sunglasses shielding your eyes, a black purse slung at your side, you looked every inch the kept young Russian fiancée. Passing a window you caught sight of yourself again and had to slow down, stunned: long tan legs flashing with every step, the swing of Yulia’s hair, the way the fabric of the skirt stretched tight and short across your hips.

By the time you descended into the quiet house, Yuri was gone—off to the office, efficient and commanding as always—but he had not left you forgotten. On the hall table a note sat atop a slim envelope. You unfolded it, his familiar slanted handwriting making you smile despite yourself:

A driver is waiting. Spend no more than $10,000. Buy something appropriate for our honeymoon. I’ve made lunch reservations for you and Andrea this afternoon. 2:30. Before the children return.

Beneath the note was a gleaming American Express card. Your name embossed across its surface. Your breath caught—your name. For one dangerous moment you nearly squealed out loud, giddy, clutching it like treasure.

“Ten thousand dollars…” you whispered, voice quaking between awe and laughter. “On clothes?”

The driver held the door for you, and with a toss of your hair you stepped out, skirt dancing high with each stride. When he asked where, the word came out of you with the glee of a girl tasting freedom for the first time:

“Chanel.”

An hour melted away beneath the mirrored lights of Chanel. Racks of silk, tweed, soft leather. Salesgirls circling like gentle predators, sensing both money and beauty. You tried on dresses that slid against your skin like whispers, coats cut so finely they made you feel like a Parisian mistress. In the end you limited yourself—Victor’s voice echoed somewhere in your mind, restraint is elegant—but even with only a few items, the weight of the glossy shopping bags made your pulse quicken.

Next came Dior, Fendi, a boutique or two tucked like secrets between marble facades. With each purchase, your reflection in the store mirrors seemed less like Steve, the man fumbling through borrowed skin, and more like Yulia—self-assured, radiant, glowing with the confidence that only beauty and money combined could gift.

But Dior was where you lingered longest. The lingerie section pulled you as if by invisible strings. Satin, lace, the kind of pieces you would once have thought ridiculous, indulgent, obscene. Yet when you held a black lace bra to your chest and caught your reflection—your breasts spilling against the delicate cups—you didn’t recoil. You smiled.

He will definitely like this, you thought, fingers tracing the intricate stitching along the garter belt. Strangely, the idea no longer seemed humiliating. Not even compromising. The thought of Victor’s eyes on you, hungry—the thought warmed you.

You bought a set. Then another, softer, pale pink and sheer. You added a blouse, ivory silk, and shoes with heels that clicked sharply on Dior’s marble floor. Perfect for a honeymoon, wherever it might be.

Walking back out into the city afternoon, bags in both hands, you caught yourself humming.

“I never knew shopping could be so much fun…”

And for the first time since this began, you believed it.