The Beauty Who Loved Him by Bethany-Kris

16.

When the first snowfell in Moscow, Vera swore the city changed. All the color and cement and life turned into a beautiful palace of ice. Every street and block, and even business, looked different with snow clinging to the roofs and ice hanging from the eaves. While they only had a couple of weeks of terribly cold temperatures most winters, from the first snowfall to the last in April, the weather remained mild.

The first snowfall of the year came right on time, too. Early November greeted them with the same chill and wind it always did, but Vera could have done without needing to wear a thick parka complete with a fur-trimmed hood on the day she went shopping for wedding dresses. The falling snow with every large flake spiraling down in the winds was certainly beautiful, and it meant she was one day closer to her wedding day, but shopping downtown was a hell of a lot less fun in the cold.

The quiet whistle of appreciation from Claire as her mother observed the beginnings of the city’s first winter storm made Vera even happier that she was safely inside. Turning the tablet back around so Claire could see her daughter’s face instead of the bay window where the boutique’s private dressing room overlooked the icy, but still slightly busy, street.

“I hope you’re not walking home,” Claire joked.

Vera grinned, replying, “Definitely not.”

Her mother didn’t notice the way Vera’s attention drifted off screen to something outside the windows. Or rather, someone. Kiril sat parked in the SUV that Igor had dropped off for him to use that morning. Not that he was entirely pleased with the idea, even if the vehicle did feature studded winter tires and more traction compared to his sporty coupe.

He’d pouted the whole way into the city. Vera bet he’d do the same thing the entire way home, too. At least, she and Hannah both had the good sense to be grateful for the change in vehicle. And the extra room.

“But back to what really matters,” Claire said as Vera turned to head back across the freshly waxed hardwood floors to where Hannah waited on the leather couch. “Which is, which dress did you pick? The one you’re wearing or the first you tried?”

“She’s not going to tell us,” Hannah spoke up.

Vera stuck her tongue out at her friend. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I bet you'll want to keep it special. Secret.”

Well ...

Why did Hannah have to know her so well? Really, she only planned to keep it a secret from two people. Each for their own special reasons.

Hannah reached for the tablet then, waving for Vera to give it to her until she did. Looking right in the face of Vera’s mother, Hannah told her unabashedly, “But I can show you what she plans to wear underneath it.”

“Hannah!”

Vera’s shriek went unheeded in her friend’s peeling giggles. She didn’t make a move to do what she promised, although it didn’t appear like Claire minded the filthy joke what with the way her laughter echoed from the tablet.

The thing was, Hannah could follow through.

Three boxes, all topped with red lace ribbons, rested on the glass top of the coffee table in front of the sofa where Hannah sat. Each box, which had been waiting for her with a note that they had been chosen for her to try, featured a lace panty and bra set. All in various styles. Thong. Bikini. High-waisted. Every set had a matching pair of stockings. Each in a different color.

White.

Black.

Red.

Vera didn’t know how Vaslav managed to get his hand in just about every aspect of her life, but he did so in such a way that it hadn’t bothered her. Too much. So, she let him get away with it. Not that she seriously believed if she told him to knock it off, that he would.

“Oh, it doesn't matter, I know which dress she’s going to pick,” Vera heard her mother say as she turned to face the wall of mirrors opposite to the sofa.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Vera said before her mother could reply to Hannah, “the one I’m wearing.”

The two mirrors in the very middle acted as the doors that opened to a single, moderately sized private dressing room featuring more mirrors, and a similar white leather chair and stool, but were currently closed.

Vera admired the way the last dress she’d tried on clung to every dip and curve of her body. Mostly silk, the bodice of the gown clung low on her breasts, and the only sleeves were two limp bands of silk that fell down her shoulders. She was drawn to the way the low cut put her throat and shoulders on display.

While there was a bit more skirt to the dress than she initially thought she would go for, there was something about the way the cinched waist opened a bit at her hips that made her curves even more apparent. The back of the silk skirt fell heavily to the floor with a good foot of train. Just enough to make the skirt billow. A band of delicate lace trimmed the very edge of the skirt’s hem. Similar enough to the lace of the veil that had once been intended for her biological mother, the choice in dress was easy.

Hannah was just slow to figure it out.

Vera didn’t need to try on another dress after the last one she’d put on because the second she slipped the pearl white silk over her head, she knew. It was perfect.

Every inch.

Understated.

Classic.

Her.

“You know that one comes in blush and black,” Hannah put in while Vera continued admiring her reflection.

She considered the black option.

Only for a second.

“I’m not dyeing Gia’s veil,” Vera said.

“Good choice, your father might puke,” Claire muttered in a low laugh.

At the mention of her father, Vera swung around to say, “And don’t you dare give him even a hint about what my dress looks like, Ma.”

Hannah, sweet as could be, turned the tablet around for Vera to see her mother still in the process of rolling her eyes.

“How little faith you have in me,” Claire returned.

She wanted to deny her mother’s claim, but the sight of herself still draped in beautiful, heavy white silk was impossible to ignore. Almost surreal.

“This is really happening,” Vera whispered.

Apparently, not low enough for the other people in the space to hear—virtually, and otherwise.

“I remember that feeling,” Claire mused.

“Me, too,” Hannah muttered, “but then the bastard had to go and ruin it.”