Page 92 of Scarlet Chains
“Mama pretty!” he announces, and then immediately tries to touch the beadwork on my skirt with hands that are definitely not clean.
“Careful, little love,” I say, catching his fingers before they can transfer garden dirt to silk. “We need to keep Mama’s dress clean for pictures.”
“Pictures with Papa?”
“Lots of pictures with Papa.”
His face lights up with the kind of joy that only small children can achieve— pure and uncomplicated and absolutely certain that everything beautiful in the world exists just for him.
Through the window, I can see the garden transformed into something from a storybook. The ancient oak trees are wrapped in thousands of fairy lights that will glow like captured stars once the sun sets. White roses climb every available surface, their blooms so perfect they look artificial, their fragrance carrying on the warm afternoon breeze. Tables draped in ivory linen dot the lawn, each one centered with arrangements that probably cost too much for me to contemplate.
But the most beautiful part isn’t the flowers or the lights or the obvious expense. It’s the way Osip stands at the improvised altar beneath the largest oak tree, talking quietly with the officiant— a kind-faced man who specializes in bilingualceremonies and who promised to make our vows feel sacred rather than legal.
Even from this distance, even dressed in the formal perfection of his custom-tailored tuxedo, he looks like home. Like safety and passion and the kind of love that survives anything, even the worst parts of ourselves.
“Ready?” Mom asks, offering me her arm with the grace of someone who’s learned to find strength in fragility.
“Ready,” I say, and I mean it completely.
The walk down the outdoor aisle feels like floating through a dream. The string quartet transitions into Pachelbel’s Canon, the notes soaring over our small gathering of family and friends. There are maybe thirty people here— hospital staff who became surrogate family, a few neighbors who’ve grown fond of the mysterious Russians who bought the grandest house on the hill, some business associates whose presence speaks to the life Osip has built here, clean and legitimate and worthy of celebration.
But mostly I see his brothers. Melor stands at Osip’s right side, handsome and proud in his role as best man, his usual dangerous edge softened by genuine happiness for his brother. Radimir holds Eszter with the careful attention of someone who’s afraid of breaking something precious, his usual intensity transformed into protective uncle mode.
And Osip himself, watching me approach with an expression that makes the rest of the world fade into background noise. He looks like he’s seeing something miraculous, something he never dared hope for, something that redefines his understanding of what’s possible.
Funny. I feel the same way.
When I reach him, he takes my hands in his, and I feel the slight tremor in his fingers that speaks to emotion held carefully in check.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, low enough that only I can hear. “So fucking beautiful.”
The officiant clears his throat gently, reminding us that we have an audience, but his eyes are twinkling with the kind of amusement that suggests he’s seen plenty of grooms overwhelmed by their brides.
“Dearly beloved,” he begins, his voice heavy with ceremony and tradition, “we are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Osip and Ilona Sidorova…”
Sidorova.Not Katona Shiradze, not the name I was born with, but the name I chose. The name that makes me part of something larger than myself, something built on love and choice rather than accident of birth.
The vows are personal, written separately and kept secret until this moment. When it’s my turn to speak, I look into Osip’s eyes and find the words that have been waiting in my heart.
“Osip,” I begin, my voice steadier than I expected, “you came into my life when I thought I was finished with surprises. When I believed that safety meant avoiding complicated men and keeping my heart carefully protected.”
His mouth curves slightly at that, remembering our early conversations about independence and self-preservation.
“You taught me that real safety isn’t about avoiding risk— it’s about finding someone worth taking risks for. Someone who will catch you when you fall, who will fight for you when you can’t fight for yourself, who will love every broken piece of you until you remember how to be whole.”
I pause, seeing the way his jaw tightens with emotion, the way his hands squeeze mine with just enough pressure to ground us both.
“You gave me Slava, who calls me Mama and makes every day feel like Christmas morning. You gave me Eszter, who is perfect and new and ours in every way that matters. You gave meyour family, your brothers who protect what they love with the same fierce loyalty you’ve shown me.”
Tears track down my cheeks, but I don’t care. This is worth tears, worth vulnerability, worth standing in front of people and declaring feelings that are too big for casual words. Besides, tears are kind of my thing.
“Most of all, you gave me yourself. All of yourself— the darkness and the light, the past and the future, the man you were and the man you’re becoming. I promise to love every version of you, to choose you every day for the rest of our lives, to build something beautiful with you that honors both where we’ve been and where we’re going.”
When I finish, the garden is completely silent except for the whisper of wind through roses and the distant sound of Budapest traffic. Even Slava has gone still, his small face serious as if he understands that something important is happening.
Osip’s vows, when they come, are delivered in that beautiful, gravelly voice that I love so much.
“Ilona,” he says, and just my name in his accent sounds like a declaration of love, “I spent years believing I was finished with beautiful things. That I didn’t deserve them, couldn’t protect them, would only destroy whatever I touched.”
