Chapter 2 2. Anne - Where is the groom? 1

The following two days pass in the blink of an eye.

On the day of my wedding, Narcissa helps me get ready. We are in her room, me sitting at her vanity and her behind me, looking into the mirror. My gaze is fixed on the makeup, not wanting to see the hideous scars on my left cheek.

“Are you sure you want to wear this?” she asks me, while she takes in the black dress I put on specially for this joyful occasion.

I found it yesterday in a thrift store while browsing for old books. It looks like something the pioneers would have worn.

“I like it,” I murmur.

Narcissa puts her palms over my shoulders. “Your father won’t be happy.”

A cold shiver runs down my spine as I think of my father’s reaction when he sees me dressed like this.

“How about I let you borrow one of my dresses?” she suggests.

For a moment, I’m tempted to accept, but every favor, no matter how small it is, has a price. Who knows what Narcissa will demand of me this time?

“No, thank you,” I softly refuse.

She huffs, clearly not pleased with my reply. “Have it your way,” she mutters. “At least let me do your hair and makeup.”

I want to tell her that there’s no need, that I’m not getting married for my looks, but what comes out of my mouth is a faint, “Sure.”

Narcissa spends the next half hour applying makeup to my face. She paints my lips a bright red—a color I would never have chosen—and lines my eyes in black. Even my nails are painted, half red and half black.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to give me a goth vibe.

She leaves my hair for last.

“Don’t,” I say when she gathers all my brown hair in a ponytail, exposing the left side of my face–the one with the hideous scars.

For a moment, I look in the mirror. The scars look at me, mockingly.

Tears swirl in my eyes.

I quickly avert my gaze, not wanting to see how I look. “Just leave it as it is,” I plead.

You are beautiful.

No, I’m not.

I’m…disgusting.

Narcissa lets go of my hair. I rush to use it to cover up my face.

“Don’t you want me to style it for you?” she wonders.

“It doesn’t matter. The man who’s marrying me is probably expecting… not me,” I say, defeated. “He will most likely call off the entire thing the moment he sees me.”

I hope he does. Then I won’t have to go to Russia.

“Don’t worry,” she tries to reassure me. “By the end of the day, you will be married. And who cares if your husband loves you or not? Or even likes you? Just spend his money on expensive wine and clothes. Travel. Meet new people and go see new places,” she suggests.

I don’t like to do any of that. The only thing that I do like is staying in my room and reading history books. Learning about other civilizations, their lifestyles, and their beliefs is fascinating.

“I will probably be locked up in a mansion and forced to have several kids before my husband throws me into the street and finds a younger wife,” I mumble.

My stepmother laughs. “Don’t be so dramatic, dear.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “Come on. The judge and your future husband are about to arrive.”

We go down to the living room, where my father, Rayan, and his girlfriend Lucy are waiting for us. The wedding officiant is already here; the only one missing is the man who’s about to marry me.

The moment my father sees me, his face goes dark with fury. If the wedding officiant hadn’t been here, he would have hit me.

“Come here, little sister,” Rayan says, shifting to make space between himself and Lucy so I can sit between them.

I don’t want to sit between them, but I do it anyway.

“Your dress is horrible,” Lucy comments. “Why in the world did you decide to wear it?”

“It was cheap,” I reply.

Rayan wraps his arm around my shoulders, making me tense. “I think she looks cute,” he chuckles.

I fist my palms in my lap.

You are not cute. Never that. You are beautiful.

No, I’m not beautiful.

“Change that dress before Dimitri gets here,” my father hisses at me. “And wash your face. You look like a clown.”

Dimitri.

That’s the name of the man I’m about to marry.

My fingers curl around the thin fabric of my dress. “But, what am I supposed to wear? I don’t have–”

“Now!” My father raises his voice at me.

“Let her wear what she wants,” Rayan tries to intervene on my behalf. “It will make… all this more interesting.”

“If I have to repeat myself one more time,” my father threatens me.

I bolt from the sofa and rush to my room, where I lock the door behind me and lean against it.

Tears sting my eyes. I don’t think I can do this.

For a moment, I contemplate grabbing my phone and calling my cousin, Alekos, and begging him to help me, but I can’t drag him into my mess. His wife just had a baby. I can’t be so selfish and drag him away from his family when that should be his main priority.

After composing myself, I wash my face and change out of my dress, slipping into a navy blue one with long sleeves. It belonged to my mother. For a moment, I imagine she’s here with me, hugging me. It’s the only thing I have left of her–this and the little voice recorder–since my father threw away all her things. But for some reason, he decided to keep this dress, which he gave to me when I turned eighteen.

When I am ready, I return to the living room.

As I sit back between my stepbrother and his girlfriend, my father throws me a stare full of venom, but doesn’t comment on my appearance anymore, which means he now approves of how I look.

Dimitri is yet to arrive.

We wait for him. And wait. And wait.