Page 2 of Silver Fox Mountain Daddies

"Come," she says briskly. "Everyone is waiting."

Before I can fully stand, she’s already halfway down the hall. No need to see if I’ll follow. I was raised to be the perfect little lapdog. With Anoush, you can expect obedience at all times. I’ve never shown them any different. And I don’t now, despite how badly I want to run in the opposite direction.

I trail after her, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my dress. My reflection flickers across the hallway mirror: small, careful, contained. A shadow in a borrowed life.

The murmur of voices swells as we near the staircase. Laughter, clinking glasses, the low hum of music floating from the reception room. I hesitate at the top step, fingers skimming the railing.

This is my life, I remind myself. My family. My duty.

And tomorrow, my prison.

Still, I make myself move. One step, then another. Smile stitched tight, head bowed just enough to seem demure—for women can never be anything but.

First, dinner. Second, polite laughter. Third, survival.

Fourth...

Fourth, I don't know.

I don't know.

The dining room hums with soft conversation and the clink of cutlery against porcelain. Gold-edged plates catch the light from the chandelier overhead, casting tiny reflections across the tablecloths pressed so stiff they could probably stand on their own.

I sit at the right hand of my father, in the place reserved for the bride-to-be, and try to remember the order of courses.

Davit leans back in his chair, one arm draped across the seat behind mine. His cologne is so thick I could choke on it. It’s as if he bathed in it.

I’m sensitive to strong scents. They all know that.

But knowing has never stopped them. My mother’s heavy perfumes, my father’s overwhelming aftershave, Davit drowning himself in whatever horrible cologne he’s wearing tonight.

My comfort has never been part of the equation.

Everyone here—my family, his—watches us with fond approval, raising glasses and exchanging whispered congratulations. They see a beautiful couple—a solid match. A future secured.

They see health, happiness, success, and eventual grandchildren.

They see what they want to see.

“You’ll need to learn to cook properly for me,” he says, tapping the stem of his wine glass with one blunt finger. “Not just...whatever it is you eat.”

I press my napkin into my lap to keep my hands from trembling.

“I can cook,” I say, keeping my voice light, careful. “Vegetarian food can be very traditional. Eech, vospov kofte, ghapama?—”

Davit chuckles, cutting me off before I can list another dish.

“No man wants to come home to a plate of rabbit food, Anoush,” he says, voice pitched low enough to seem private, but loud enough for the aunts and uncles clustered nearby to hear. “You’ll learn.”

The humiliation rises up my throat.

Across the table, my mother offers a tight, approving smile, as if Davit’s correction is kind. I know she’s grateful he is already shaping me into something more palatable.

I nod because not nodding would be a bigger offense than any horrible ache I might carry.

Davit shifts, his shoulder bumping mine, and continues speaking.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you have everything you need. You won’t have to think too much. I know thinking is difficult for you.”

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