Anastasia
Boston, present day
Today is my wedding day.
I can’t believe this day has come around so quickly. Yet it feels like I’ve been
waiting forever.
I’m standing in the bridal dressing room at Grantham Hall, one of the most
prestigious wedding venues in Boston.
Staring back at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror wall, I take in how grown-up I look.
My face is made up like I’m ready to walk the red carpet at the Oscars, and my wild platinum locks have been teased into loose waves beneath my veil.
In this dress my father bought for me, I look and feel like a fairy-tale princess.
Unlike the medieval-looking wedding gowns worn by descendants of the Brotherhood of Knights, my dress is from Vera Wang’s iconic bridal collection.
The strapless draped bodice has a sweetheart neck and a swirling frothy full-length skirt which reminds me of the sea of white roses in the courtyard at home.
In a matter of minutes, I’ll walk down the aisle to marry Viktor Volkova, a man known throughout the country and Europe for his family’s wealth, power, and status.
Even though the contract for our marriage was signed and sealed in blood before I was born, the idea of our union never felt arranged to me. Not with him.
Although I’m nineteen and Viktor is nine years older than me, we’ve always been close, and I can’t wait to marry him.
Everything is perfect. But I’m nervous.
And it’s not the wedding or Viktor making me feel this way.
It’s my nightmares.
They’ve gotten worse.
Seven months ago, when I started my Psychology degree at Raventhorn University, the hellish nightmares I experienced as a child after a car accident returned.
Sleepless nights followed, and I haven’t managed to push aside the wretched feeling telling me my nightmares might not really benightmares, but fractured memories of something horrific that happened to me.
Something different to the car accident, and something more I can’t remember from the past.
Just the thought sends a chilling shiver through my body.
The creak of the door draws my attention away from the mirror and my sordid thoughts. When Mira, Viktor’s mother, glides in, my spirits lift.
As usual, she looks like a goddess with flawless makeup on her alabaster skin and her salt-and-pepper hair in a perfect chignon. The elegant emerald gown flowing around her body matches her eyes and makes her look at least ten years younger than her fifty years.
She looks me over, bringing her dainty hands up to her cheeks.
“Anastasia, oh my gosh, look at you.” The deep emotion in her voice almost overpowers her slight Russian accent. “My dear girl, you look absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She pulls me in for a loving hug, and I sink into her embrace.
“No need to thank me, dear. It’s true. I couldn’t ask for a more beautiful daughter-in-law, or a better one.”