Chapter 2 - The Bride Sent Across an Ocean
Moscow greeted Elara with snow.
By the time the aircraft touched down, dusk had swallowed the horizon, turning the runway lights into glowing streaks against the frozen landscape.
Elara had spent the flight rehearsing every terrible possibility.
Vadim might be arrogant.
He might be cruel.
He might look at her the way Taras did.
Worst of all, he might believe everything her father had told him and behave accordingly.
The private terminal was nearly empty.
A tall man waited near the glass doors.
Elara recognized him immediately.
Vadim Sokolov was more intimidating in person.
Photographs had flattened him.
They failed to capture the way a room seemed to reorganize itself around him.
Silver-gray hair swept back naturally from his forehead.
Dark overcoat.
Black gloves.
A face that looked carved rather than handsome in any conventional way.
Two men stood several feet behind him.
Vadim ignored them when Elara approached.
His attention stayed entirely on her.
“Elara Fagan?”
“Yes.”
His eyes moved briefly to the single suitcase beside her.
“That’s all?”
“I didn’t know how much luggage was appropriate when being exchanged for debt.”
One of the men behind Vadim shifted.
Vadim didn’t.
For a dangerous second, Elara wondered if she had made a catastrophic mistake.
Then the corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
“Good,” he said.
“What is?”
“You speak plainly.”
“That depends who you ask.”
“I’m asking.”
He took her suitcase before she could stop him.
“I can carry that.”
“I know.”
He carried it anyway.
Outside, wind sliced through the terminal entrance.
Elara instinctively pulled her coat tighter.
Vadim noticed.
He removed the dark scarf from around his neck and offered it.
She stared.
“You’ll be cold.”
“I’m Russian.”
“That doesn’t make you immune to weather.”
“It makes complaining about it embarrassing.”
Despite herself, Elara almost smiled.
She accepted the scarf.
It smelled faintly of cedar.
The drive took nearly an hour.
Vadim sat beside her in the back of the vehicle but asked few questions.
“Was the flight comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“I was nervous.”
He looked at her.
“About me?”
“Mostly.”
“I appreciate accuracy.”
That nearly made her smile again.
The residence stood behind black gates on a forested estate outside the city.
Elara had expected something severe.
Instead she found pale stone, warm lights and enormous windows glowing against the snow.
Staff greeted Vadim respectfully.
Nobody stared at Elara.
At least not obviously.
An older woman named Marina showed her upstairs.
“This is your room.”
Elara stopped.
Her room.
Not their room.
A spacious suite opened before her with a fireplace, pale blue walls and shelves already containing English-language novels.
She turned.
“Did Mr. Sokolov arrange the books?”
Marina smiled.
“He asked what languages you read.”
Elara remembered telling Taras months earlier about a translation project.
Had Vadim asked her father?
Or investigated independently?
The thought was unsettling.
Yet the books weren’t generic decorations.
Several were authors she genuinely liked.
That evening she joined Vadim for dinner.
The table could have seated twenty.
Only two places were set.
“You don’t have to sit at the other end,” Elara said.
“I was told Americans prefer personal space.”
“We do, but this is approaching a separate zip code.”
Vadim gestured to the chair beside him.
She moved closer.
For twenty minutes, conversation stayed polite.
Then a younger man entered.
“Vadim.”
Vadim’s expression cooled.
“Anton.”
The newcomer glanced at Elara.
His eyes lingered.
“Well,” he said. “Fagan didn’t exaggerate.”
Elara’s stomach tightened.
She knew that tone.
Vadim set down his glass.
“Finish the sentence.”
Anton hesitated.
“Nothing.”
“You came into my home. You looked at my future wife. You began a sentence.”
Vadim’s voice never rose.
“Finish it.”
Anton shifted.
“I only meant she’s… different from the women you usually entertain.”
Elara stared at her plate.
Before she could disappear inside herself, Vadim spoke.
“You’ll apologize.”
Anton looked stunned.
“Vadim—”
“Now.”
Anton faced Elara.
“My apologies.”
Vadim waited.
“For?”
Anton swallowed.
“For commenting on your appearance.”
Elara finally looked up.
“Accepted.”
Anton left quickly.
Silence returned.
Vadim resumed eating.
Elara watched him.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“Yes.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Vadim met her gaze.
“He intended disrespect. In my house, disrespect toward you becomes disrespect toward me.”
“That sounds territorial.”
“It is.”
Her expression must have changed because he added, “Not ownership.”
That distinction mattered more than she wanted it to.
The following day brought fittings, arrangements and paperwork.
Vadim kept his distance unless asked.
He never entered her room without permission.
He never commented on her body.
He never referenced the reputation Taras had manufactured.
Elara began wondering whether he knew.
Sunday arrived.
The ceremony took place in a historic chapel attached to an estate used by the Sokolov family for generations.
Elara walked down the aisle alone.
Taras had decided business in Chicago was “unavoidable.”
Of course he had.
Vadim waited at the altar.
Black suit.
Silver hair.
Unreadable expression.
When Elara reached him, he extended his hand.
She placed hers in it.
His fingers were warm.
The ceremony passed in a blur until the priest smiled.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Elara froze.
It was involuntary.
She had imagined this moment.
A stranger touching her.
Dozens of people watching.
The first kiss of her life turned into a public obligation.
Vadim saw everything.
Her fear.
Her hesitation.
The tiny movement backward she tried to suppress.
His expression changed.
He leaned forward slowly.
Elara braced herself.
His lips touched her cheek.
Nothing more.
The chapel erupted in polite applause.
Vadim straightened.
His eyes held hers.
“No audience gets to decide that for you,” he murmured.
She stared at him.
That evening, alone in the master sitting room, Elara stood beside the fireplace.
Vadim removed his cuff links.
“You won’t be required to share my bed,” he said.
Relief weakened her knees.
“Thank you.”
“But I require honesty.”
There it was.
The warmth vanished.
Vadim turned.
“Your father described your reputation.”
Elara’s hands went still.
The lie had crossed the ocean with her.
“I don’t care how many men there were,” Vadim continued. “Your past belongs to you. But if there is something that could become dangerous later, I need truth now.”
Twenty-six years of humiliation rose in Elara’s throat.
This time, she refused to swallow it.
“There were no men.”
Vadim stopped.
“What?”
“There were no relationships. No affairs. No secret boyfriends. No men.”
The room changed.
“My father lied.”
Vadim stared at her.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
He studied her face for so long that Elara almost looked away.
She didn’t.
Finally he asked, quietly, “Why?”
Elara swallowed.
“Because he was ashamed of me.”
Vadim’s expression hardened.
Not at her.
She realized that slowly.
May you like
And for the first time since Taras entered her bedroom in Chicago, Elara wondered whether her father had miscalculated far more dangerously than she had imagined.
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