Page 12 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
Chapter Four
Our impending discussion doesn’t include the potential of whether or not I’ll need a dress—the matter has already been decided. Like always, some aspects of Maxim Koslov are nonnegotiable—what he wants, he gets. Within seconds of him leaving, his trusted henchman is already knocking on the door.
“Ms. Marconi,” Lucius greets me with a small smile. “I will allow you to get dressed, and then we can be on our way.”
After a quick shower in a luxurious bathroom off the master suite, I change into a simple black dress and join Lucius in the car.
Minutes later, we reach our destination.
“I’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready, Ms. Marconi,” Lucius announces from the driver’s seat. He eyes the building straight across from where we’re parked. It’s simple, made of brick, positioned between some of the more upscale buildings in the affluent part of the city. Places I used to only glimpse in magazines.
My heart pounds as I exit the car and cross the busy street, bustling with the height of afternoon traffic. Trust Maxim to pick such a place—exclusive and excluded, yet unabashedly public.
Through a pair of gleaming black doors, I find an interior of dark walls and plush carpet. A woman comes to greet me from around a wooden podium, her outfit a crisply tailored black. “You must be Francesca,” she says, clasping one of my hands. “This way.”
She leads me into a wide, open area displaying a rack of fabric along one wall and a row of mirrors along the other. My reflection taunts me from them—an army of pale, wide-eyed figures gaping as the world shifts around them.
“Mr. Koslov had a list of requirements sent over,” she explains while fishing a slim black notebook from an apron slung around her waist.
“Requirements?” I sound surprised, but deep down, I’m not. Maxim leave something as personal as a wedding dress up to me? Never. Like everything else in his life, he seems to have it planned to the last meticulous detail.
“Oh yes,” the woman gushes, oblivious to my confusion. “The designer can’t wait to get started. We drooled over the sketches last night. Not many people opt for traditional gowns nowadays. And attempting a Russian style gown will be a unique challenge, especially.”
She pauses expectantly, but all I can do is blink and force a smile.
“Yes…well…” Clearing her throat, the girl steers me before the wall of mirrors and withdraws a tape measure from another apron pocket. “Today, I will just get your preliminary measurements. You don’t have to lift a single finger. Shall we begin?”
Eyeing my reflection, I nod. The girl in the glass glares at me, her gaze revealing everything I’m too chicken to say out loud.Don’t be stupid. You’re not really surprised, are you? Emotion has nothing to do with it.
In Maxim Koslov’s world, relationships are tethered to contracts. Sex is a primal release, no more intimate than breathing.
And marriage is a business transaction.
Nothing more.
* * *
Hours later,and I’m still staring at my reflection—a stranger draped in yards of ivory lace. If I ever were to imagine myself wearing a wedding dress, I wouldn’t pick white as the color.
It makes my skin look sallow, and my hair duller than usual. My curls are a frizzy cloud barely able to support the thin, sheer fabric thrown over them as a makeshift veil. Not to mention the dress itself.
Grander,Maxim claimed. Maybe his real meaning got lost in translation—extravagant. Swaths of silk and taffeta extend from my waist. It’s the skeleton of a ballgown ripped from one of those princess movies Ainsley loves to watch.
The designer is crouched beside me, sticking pins into a massive skirt. She works efficiently, but one thing is clear—my input isn’t needed. While I may be the one meant to wear it, this dress is a token in the same vein as my ring. Maxim has his own plan set into motion. I’m just a pawn being moved across the board.
“We’re all done for today,” the woman announces, rising to her feet. She swipes imaginary dust from her knees and then helps me remove the pieces of the dress. “Your next appointment is in a week. Mr. Koslov has already made the arrangements.”
A week. The timeframe feels like an ominous deadline. One I’m keenly aware of as I exit the boutique and find a black car waiting for me. Before I can take a step toward the curb, a voice calls out.
“Mrs. Koslov? Mrs. Koslov!”
I turn to find the seamstress racing from the boutique, a white piece of paper clenched in her fist, and a shopping bag dangling from her opposite hand. Even as she rushes toward me, I can’t bite back the instinctive need to correct her. “I’m not—”
“Here,” she insists, shoving the items into my hands. “Mr. Koslov wanted me to pass this message along, along with this dress. Have a nice day.”
I stare after her, my heart racing, my throat dry. Inside the shopping bag is a white box tied with a black ribbon. A building sense of dread churns in my stomach as I shove my hand between the edges of the box, just enough to catch a swath of dark fabric inside, nestled within tissue paper. Whatever it’s meant for, I doubt it’s intended for the wedding. Something less formal, then? Like another meeting with Anatoli…
My grip tightens, and it takes everything I have not to drop the bag onto the sidewalk. The note, however, turns out to be relatively simple once I unfurl it with trembling fingers.You’re shaking now,he wrote, and the back of my neck prickles with awareness. A glance over my shoulder reveals that no one is there—but I sense the extent of his control, nonetheless. Especially as I read the next written line. But get accustomed to how it sounds, Mrs. Koslov.
