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anastasia illyiana

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Layla said, wide eyed as we stepped into our new apartment.

I nodded, the reality hitting me all at once—we were really in America, living and working on our own for the first time.

“It’s a miracle your future husband didn’t want you to go straight to his house,” Layla said, dropping her bag in the middle of the room and flopping herself onto the white leather couch in the corner.

I’d like to say we had a huge window with breathtaking views of the city, but our tiny window only showed the alley that was littered with trash.

Layla and I had been born in the States, but raised by our parents in Russia, molded by the values of a culture that saw women’s futures tied to the men they married.

My mother had scraped together what little money she could to send me off, but it wouldn’t last. I needed this marriage, needed him to take care of the bills, the training fees, everything I couldn’t afford on my own.

Once I won the gold for Russia and turned eighteen, my parents told me my time was up.

My trainer said I’d aged out of pair skating and quit, leaving me adrift.

There was no more room for me, no future unless I left.

My mother saw it, too. She had always wanted more for me, and when she suggested I go to the States, I knew it wasn’t just about finding a new trainer.

It was about survival. I could compete for the US team.

In order to stay, in order to have the chance to keep training, marriage was my only option.

Arranged marriages weren’t uncommon in our culture.

They were practical, rooted in a tradition that ensured stability for both families involved.

And this would be no different. My mother had found him—a hockey player from our village, already established and playing professionally in the States.

He needed a wife to tend to his home, to be the steady presence waiting for him when he came back from his away games.

I needed a way to stay here, to keep chasing the gold that everyone said I was done reaching for.

My mother’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me of why I was here, of the life I was meant to build, even if it wasn’t entirely my own.

The deal had been made, and soon, I’d become the wife waiting by the door, cooking meals he’d tell me he missed, cultivating the home he needed to return to after grueling games on the ice.

In return, he’d financially support my ice skating. I’d have the chance to keep skating.

Thankfully, it wasn’t immediate. I wasn’t stepping into a marriage overnight.

I’d moved into a tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city.

It was cramped and lonely, but it was mine, at least for a little while.

This was the last stretch of independence I’d have, and I clung to it, training harder than ever, waking up before dawn to practice routines in the dim light of the apartment, because once the season began, my life would shift. I’d be his.

“I have a few more months left until the hockey season begins, and then he’ll call on me.” I dropped my bag next to hers and walked around the apartment.

A few of the girls on the US team had come by before we arrived to help furnish it.

It was snug, essentially a single room aside from the closet and the washroom. Against one wall stood a pair of bunk beds, outfitted in matching pink comforters. On the opposite side, the couch stood next to a modest TV that sat on a wooden table.

The kitchen was behind me, and perhaps it lacked the grandeur of a full-sized oven, but it held the essentials—a sink, a mini-fridge, and enough counter space to prepare simple meals.

“I can’t believe my parents are letting me live with you, even if it’s for a little while,” I finally said as I sat on the bottom bunk, staring at Layla.

I was petite in stature yet had an athletically toned figure, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Layla stood slightly taller, her brown locks framing her face with a natural elegance. She had warm brown eyes, while mine often felt distant and cold.

The biggest difference was that Layla carried herself with a quiet confidence and grounded presence, a reflection of her athletic prowess on the ice, while I constantly put myself down and second-guessed what I was doing.

“We’re going to be practicing with the great Coach Lapinsky,” Layla said in awe as she grabbed the remote from the table and flicked on the TV.

“Yeah,” I trailed off.

I was going to miss my old skating partner, Ivan Ivanov.

We moved with effortless grace on the ice, understanding each other’s rhythm without a word.

He was more than just a partner—he was my best friend, the one who caught me when I stumbled and pushed me to be better.

Coming to the States meant I needed to find a new partner and rebuild that connection from scratch.

“So,” Layla asked, smacking her lips together. “When do we finally get to meet your fiancé?”