the first night

The guest room was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made your own breath sound strange in your ears. You stood there a long while with the bundle of silk and lace clutched against you, your bangles clinking faintly when your hands shook. The robe slipped open in your arms, letting the nightgown fall down over one thigh, the fabric catching the light—sheer, delicate, almost obscene in its elegance.

Your throat tightened. You should have thrown it back into the closet, should have chosen anything else—a plain shirt, a robe, anything. But something about it tugged at you. Not Steve, not the father, not the man you had been—but Yulia. This body’s gravity.

You set the gown down carefully on the bedspread and sat beside it, staring at it the way you might stare at a snake you weren’t sure was venomous. For a long moment you fought yourself. Then, slowly, you pulled the leopard-print dress up over your hips, over your head, and tossed it aside. The air in the guest room felt cool against your bare skin, prickling gooseflesh across your arms and thighs.

The black lace slid easily over your new frame. Thin straps rested on your shoulders; the fabric clung to your breasts, sheer enough that the swell of them showed through. The hem ended scandalously high, fluttering just below the curve of your ass.

Your reflection in the tall wardrobe mirror made you wince and shiver all at once.

Andrea’s husband—her Steve—was gone. In his place, a woman with lips too full, lashes long and dark, hair falling around her shoulders in glossy black waves. A woman in a nightgown meant to be seen, not slept in.

Your knees weakened. You sat heavily on the edge of the bed and tugged on the robe, cinching its belt tight around your waist, as though wrapping yourself could keep the new shape of you contained. The matching mules caught your eye next. You slid them on without thinking, feeling the slight lift of the heels **** your posture straighter, your legs lengthen in the mirror.

You caught sight of yourself again. Not Steve in lingerie. Just… Yulia, ready for bed in a way that belonged here, in Victor’s strange palace of new money and lavish tastes.

The realization made your stomach churn.

You lay back against the pillows, robe loose, the lace nightgown cool against your skin. The bangles clinked softly when you lifted your arm to cover your eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, but your body was already sinking into the softness of the mattress, exhausted beyond thought.

Victor’s words echoed in your mind. After the wedding we will share a bed.

You curled onto your side, clutching the pillow, trying not to imagine it.