Page 31 of Scarlet Vows

Our friendship is like that.

He’d do anything for me. And I’d do the same for him.

But last night and even now, the same questions keep pounding at me.

Was it the right thing to do?

Am I committing to something I’m not mentally or emotionally ready for?

By that, I don’t mean Ilya. We’re not in love. It’s not that kind of emotional readiness. It’s a wedding that at its core is fake. But there’s a realness to it, a reality to that fakeness.

It’s a marriage.

Which means there’ll be a wedding.

Even if it’s at the courthouse or in front of a celebrant, just him, me and a witness, it’s still a marriage.

Any wedding, any marriage I ever dreamed of was going to be to Max. So, given my past, given how he was so horrifically ripped from me, it’s a lot.

Maybe more than I can handle.

Because if he were a stranger and this were a monetary transaction, there are ways in which it would be easier, ways in which I could perhaps convince myself it’s a legal contract and nothing more.

It’s Ilya. There’s love, friendship, understanding. There’s a history that even without sex and love and that kind of intimacy, a marriage to him, while fake, feels real. It feels like Ilya has a lot more in common with Max.

Which makes it feel too close to betrayal.

The very reason I jumped in with the offer is the reason for the turmoil now.

“You agreed, Alina,” I whisper.

And I did. I already agreed. It wouldn’t be fair to him to back out now.

I throw back the covers, finding them too constricting, too hot, and I jump out of bed. Stripping off, I go to my bathroom and shower and then dress for the day.

But it’s done nothing more than give the caffeine time to work. I’m more awake, but the turmoil’s still there.

I pick up my phone and head down to the living room as I call Ilya.

“Can you come over?” I say the moment he picks up.

“Sure, is everything all right?”

I try and keep my voice light and my breathing even, but I know him. He’s likely picked up something in either my voice or just from how tuned in he is with me.

“It’s all fine. Can you?”

“Give me twenty.”

He’ll be here earlier.

I hurry into the kitchen, ignoring Magda and her rapid Russian, and Olga rushes past with my bedding. They always do this. Fresh sheets every day, and Magda treating the kitchen as hers.

I pull out bread, and Magda plucks it from me.

“My kitchen,” she says in Russian. “I’m about to start on a borscht, so what is it you want?”

I know this is her love language, but I just glare. “I want to make some sandwiches. Ilya is coming?—”