Page 91 of Scarlet Chains
Mom’s smile carries the weight of all the years she thought she’d never see— my wedding day, her grandchildren, the simple joy of watching her daughter find happiness despite everything that tried to destroy it.
“Your father would have loved this,” she says quietly, and for once the mention of Dad doesn’t bring that crushing wave of loss. Instead, it brings warmth, the memory of his laughter and his terrible jokes and the way he used to call me his “little star” when I was Slava’s age.
I know he was flawed.
But he was still my dad.
“He would have been impossible,” I say, imagining him walking me down the aisle with tears in his eyes and pride in every step. “Crying and making speeches and embarrassing everyone.”
“Exactly.” Her voice holds love and grief in equal measure, the complex mathematics of missing someone while celebrating everything beautiful they made possible. “He would have adored Osip, you know. Once he got past the protective father routine.”
I think about that sometimes— an alternate universe where Dad lived to see me find love, where he could meet his grandchildren and approve of the man I chose, where the past held different secrets and the present didn’t require so much forgiveness.
But that’s not our story. Our story is messier, more complicated, built on a foundation of loss and redemption that makes the happiness we’ve found feel precious in ways that easy happiness never could.
A soft knock at the bedroom door interrupts my thoughts. “May I come in?”
Radimir’s voice, unusually formal. I exchange glances with Mom, who nods and reaches for Eszter’s carrier.
“Come in,” I call, making sure my robe is properly secured.
He enters carrying a small wrapped box, his usual IT-savvy intensity replaced by something that looks almost nervous. For a man who can hack into government databases and wire security systems with his eyes closed, he seems remarkably unsettled by the simple act of gift-giving.
“From all of us,” he says, setting the box on the vanity carefully. “Melor, me, and…” He pauses, glances around as if checking for surveillance, then lowers his voice. “And Osip. Though he’ll pretend he had nothing to do with it.”
I unwrap the box slowly, savoring the moment. Inside, nestled in black velvet, is a bracelet that takes my breath away. Not because of its obvious value— though the diamonds and sapphires clearly cost more than my old apartment— but because of what it represents.
Three charms hang from the delicate chain. A tiny silver fox with sapphire eyes. A miniature key set with diamonds. And a small heart engraved with something in Russian that I suspect will carry more sentiment than these men are normally capable of.
“The fox is from The Scarlet Fox,” Radimir explains, his words coming faster now, as if he’s relieved to have something technical to focus on. “The key is for…” He gestures vaguely. “All the doors you’ve opened. For him. For us. The family thing, you know?”
“And the heart?”
“That’s from Osip. The words are about… love. From when…” Radimir’s cheeks actually color slightly. “From when he finally grew balls enough to tell you he loves you.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky with emotion. These men, these dangerous, complicated, beautiful men who’ve accepted me as family despite everything that should have kept us apart.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I mean it in ways that go far beyond gratitude for jewelry, no matter how thoughtful.
“Welcome to the brotherhood,” Radimir says with a grin that transforms his usually serious face. “Try not to let power go to your head. We’re idiots, but we’reyouridiots now.”
After he leaves, I fasten the bracelet around my wrist with hands that shake slightly from emotion rather than nerves. The weight of it feels like belonging, like the final piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.
Mom helps me into the dress, her fingers gentle with the delicate fabric and intricate closures. In the mirror, I see someone I recognize but who looks transformed— not just by silk and lace and careful makeup, but by happiness that radiates from the inside out.
“You’re glowing,” Mom observes, stepping back to assess the final result.
“I’m happy,” I say simply. “Really, truly happy.”
“Even though it’s complicated?”
I consider the question, thinking about everything that brought us to this moment. The lies and revelations, the violence and tenderness, the way love sometimes requires forgiving the unforgivable.
“Especially because it’s complicated,” I say finally. “Easy things don’t usually last. But this…” I touch the bracelet, feeling the weight of promise and permanence. “We fought for this. And it feels like forever.”
From downstairs, the sound of the string quartet warming up drifts through the windows. Mozart’s “Eine kleine Nachtmusik”— something classic and joyful and timeless. The music of celebration, of moments that deserve to be remembered.
Slava appears in the doorway, resplendent in his tiny tuxedo, his hair combed into submission and his face shining with excitement. He’s carrying the ring pillow with the concentration of someone entrusted with state secrets.
