Chapter 13: Fitting Room Defilement
The Viennese boutique was a silent tomb of tulle and taffeta, a world away from the pressurized cabin of the jet. It smelled of dust and dried lavender, of old money and quiet desperation. Vanja stood on a low podium in the center of the sunlit dressing room, surrounded by her own ghostly reflections in the triple mirrors. She felt like a specimen under glass.
The dress was the sixth one. Heavy, antique lace over satin, with a corseted bodice that squeezed her ribs and made the low simmer of her nausea churn more persistently. It was beautiful. It was a shroud.
“Turn,” Max said softly. He was leaning against a velvet-upholstered bench, arms crossed, watching her. His eyes, those incredible blue eyes, held none of their usual charming light. They were dark, intent, absorbing every detail. He had been unnervingly quiet since London, since the doctor’s confirmation, since the move into the stark, modern penthouse overlooking the Thames that felt nothing like a home.
She turned slowly, the train of the dress whispering against the carpet. Her own eyes in the mirror looked dead. The golden-green was muted, flat.
“It’s the one,” Roman’s voice came from nowhere, smooth and final.
Vanja started. She hadn’t heard him enter. He stood by the door, having dismissed the attentive seamstress with a curt nod minutes before. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, looking more like a CEO at a board meeting than a father groom-shopping.
“It’s suffocating,” Vanja said, her voice barely above a murmur.
“It’s perfect,” Roman countered, stepping further into the room. His gaze travelled from the delicate lace cap sleeves down to the cinched waist. “It provides the necessary… architecture.”
Max pushed off from the bench. “She doesn’t like it.”
“Her opinion on the aesthetics is noted,” Roman said, not looking at his son. “But the symbolism is non-negotiable. Tradition. Purity. A certain fortress-like quality.” His eyes finally met Vanja’s in the mirror. “It sends the correct message.”
A hot spike of defiance pierced her numbness. “What message? That I’m a prized heifer being led to slaughter?”
Max flinched. Roman’s lips thinned, the only sign of irritation.
“The message,” Roman said slowly, walking closer, “is that you are entering a powerful family. That you are cherished. Protected.” He stopped behind her, his reflection looming over her shoulder in the glass. “That you belong to us.”
The words, delivered with such calm certainty, chilled her blood. She watched his hands rise in the mirror. He didn’t touch her. Instead, he reached out and adjusted a fold of lace on her shoulder, his fingers precise. The gesture was possessive, clinical. He then stepped back, his eyes sliding to a seemingly innocuous mirrored panel on the side wall. “I have a call. Finalize this.”
He left, the door clicking shut with definitive softness.
The silence he left behind was different. Thicker, charged. Vanja let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of the dress.
“Take it off,” Max said. His voice was rough.
She looked at his reflection. He had moved, was now standing just behind her right shoulder, closer than his father had been. “What?”
“You heard me. You hate it. Take it off.”
There was a strange, restless energy coming off him. A tension that had been coiling since the plane, since the doctor’s office. She reached back for the hidden zipper, fingers fumbling against the tiny metal teeth. She couldn’t reach.
“I can’t—”
His hands were there before she finished the sentence. He brushed her fingers aside. He found the zipper and pulled it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. The heavy bodice loosened, gaping open. A cool draft touched the skin of her back. He pushed the lace and satin off her shoulders, letting the top of the dress pool at her waist, held up by the voluminous skirt.
She stood in her simple, nude-colored strapless bra, her reflection pale and exposed in the three mirrors. The pregnancy was not yet visible, just a soft flat plane of stomach. But they knew it was there. The knowledge hung between them, a live wire.
Max’s hands didn’t leave her. They slid from her shoulders down her bare arms, a slow, deliberate caress. His touch was warm, almost feverish. He bent his head, his lips brushing the junction of her neck and shoulder. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, the words vibrating against her skin. “It makes me insane.”
She shivered. It wasn’t entirely fear. The numbness was receding, burned away by the heat of his hands, the rawness in his voice. This was the Max from the penthouse, the one who broke through her walls with a terrifying, addictive hunger. The one she had craved even as she cursed him.
“He’s watching,” Max murmured into her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.
A jolt went through her. Her eyes snapped to the mirrored panel Roman had glanced at. It looked like any other wall decoration. But Max’s certainty was absolute.
“How do you—”
“I know my father.” His hands came around to her front, sliding over the cups of her bra, his thumbs circling her nipples through the lace. They tightened instantly into sensitive peaks. “He’s on the other side of that glass. He can’t hear us. But he can see everything.” He pinched one gently, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. “He’s probably got his cock in his hand right now, watching me touch what’s his.”
The vulgarity, the sheer audacity of it, sent a dark, shocking thrill through her core. Her resistance was a thin shell, cracking under the pressure of his words, his touch, and the horrifying, arousing idea of Roman’s unseen eyes.
“Stop it,” she breathed, but her body arched back into his, seeking more of his touch.
“No,” Max said, his voice dropping to a low growl. One hand left her breast, trailing down over her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her simple underwear. “You don’t want me to stop.” His fingers found her, and she was wet. Silken, dripping wet. The proof of her own complicity. “See?” He pushed two fingers inside her, deep and without preamble. “Your body knows who it belongs to.”
He fucked her with his fingers, a harsh, relentless rhythm that made her knees buckle. She clutched at the heavy skirt of the wedding dress to keep from falling, her knuckles white. Her head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes screwed shut. Pleasure, sharp and unwelcome, coiled tight in her belly.
“Look,” he commanded, nipping her ear. “Look in the mirror. Look at yourself.”
She forced her eyes open. The sight in the triptych of mirrors was obscene. Her, half-dressed in the ruined wedding gown, her face flushed, her mouth open in a silent cry. Max, fully clothed behind her, his face a mask of fierce concentration as his hand worked between her legs. And the blank, reflective surface of that side panel, behind which Roman abramovich sat, unseen, watching his son debauch his future daughter-in-law.
The thought, the exposure, tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and shuddering, a silent convulsion that made her thighs clamp around his invading hand. She choked back a scream, biting her lip until she tasted copper.
Max held her through it, his arm a steel band around her waist. As the last tremors subsided, he slowly withdrew his slick fingers. He brought them to her mouth. “Taste,” he ordered, his voice hoarse. “Taste how much you want this.”
Helpless, she opened her mouth. He pushed his fingers past her lips. The taste of herself, musky and sharp, filled her mouth. She sucked, her eyes locked on his in the mirror, seeing the dark, possessive triumph there.
He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop. Then his hands were on her hips, spinning her around roughly. The wedding dress, already pooled at her waist, became a tangled obstacle. He pushed her forward, bending her over the velvet bench she’d leaned against earlier. The expensive fabric was cool against her cheek.
He yanked her underwear down to her knees. She heard the swift, frantic sound of his own zipper, the rustle of clothing. He didn’t bother undressing. He just freed himself, and then the broad, hot head of his cock was pressing against her, blunt and insistent.
“Tell him,” Max gritted out, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her hip. “Tell him who you belong to.”
She was past words, past thought. All that existed was the urgent, empty ache he’d created, the humiliating knowledge of the spectator, the raw need. “You,” she sobbed into the velvet. “You.”
He drove into her in one brutal, deep thrust. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs. He was not gentle. He was claiming, punishing, worshiping. Each plunge was a punctuation mark on his father’s lesson. Mine. Mine. Mine.
The bench creaked with the force of his thrusts. The lace of the dress scratched her skin. Her orgasm had left her hypersensitive, and every stroke bordered on pain, tipping back into a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. He fucked her with a desperate, driving rhythm, his hips slamming against her backside with a sound that was unmistakably carnal.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his breath coming in harsh bursts. “Take it. Take all of it. Give him a good show.”
On the other side of the one-way mirror, Roman abramovich sat in a straight-backed chair in a small, dark observation room. A faint glow from a control panel illuminated his sharp features. His jacket was draped neatly over another chair. His tie was loosened.
His eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding in the sunlit dressing room. His son, pounding into the woman who would bear his name, who carried his blood. Vanja, bent over, her perfect back arched, her face a rictus of ecstasy and torment framed by the ridiculous white lace.
His hand was inside his open trousers, moving slowly, rhythmically. His own arousal was a cold, focused fire in his gut. He watched Max’s control, his possession, and felt a profound, searing pride. This was dynasty. This was legacy. Not in boardrooms, but here, in this raw, sweating, primal act.
He saw Max’s pace become frantic, erratic. He saw Vanja’s hands claw at the velvet bench. He knew the moment was near.
As Max roared, a raw, guttural sound of release, his body shuddering and slamming into Vanja one final, claiming time, Roman followed. His own orgasm was silent, a sharp, clinical tension that released in a series of precise pulses. His semen struck the one-way glass, streaking the view of his son collapsing over Vanja’s back, obscuring them in a translucent, pearlescent film.
In the dressing room, Max slumped over her, his weight pressing her into the bench, his breath hot on her neck. He was still inside her, throbbing. She could feel the warm, wet spill of him deep in her womb, a shocking intimacy that felt more binding than any contract.
He nuzzled her hair, his lips against her ear. “Mine,” he whispered again, the word now soft, exhausted.
Vanja didn’t answer. She stared at the blurred, distorted image of herself in the mirror ahead, at the white lace bunched around her waist, at the mascara smudged under her dead, hollow eyes. The taste of herself was still on her tongue. The smell of sex and expensive velvet filled her nostrils.
And on the other side of the glass, unseen, the proof of Roman’s voyeuristic victory slowly began to drip down the pane, a viscous, silent verdict on her future.
The descent into London felt like a controlled crash. Through the oval window, the city resolved from a smudged grid into sharp, rain-slicked streets and needle-like towers. Max’s hand in hers was a clammy, static thing. Roman emerged from the cockpit, his expression reset to one of impenetrable calm. “The car will take you directly to the clinic,” he stated, glancing at Vanja. “I have business elsewhere. Maxim, you will accompany her.”
“I’m not a child,” Vanja said, her voice thin.
“No,” Roman agreed, his gaze dropping pointedly to her midsection. “You are considerably more.”
A black Maybach with tinted windows was waiting on the tarmac. The transfer from the jet’s sealed environment to the car’s leather interior was seamless, a bubble of privilege moving through the morning traffic. Max was silent beside her, a tense statue staring out his window. The clinic was not a hospital, but a discreet Georgian townhouse in Mayfair. Inside, it smelled of beeswax and money. A woman in a crisp, white coat greeted them by name and led Vanja away. The examination was swift, professional, and coldly conclusive. A blood draw. A transvaginal ultrasound. The monitor was turned away from her.
“Congratulations, Ms. Winzendorf,” the doctor said, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Approximately seven weeks. The fetal heartbeat is strong.” She handed Vanja a black-and-white printout, a grainy, ghostly oval floating in a sea of static.
Back in the car, Max took the image. His fingers trembled as he held it up to the light from the window. He stared at it for a long time, his breath fogging the glass. Then, he began to cry. Not with drama, but with silent, wrenching sobs that shook his broad shoulders. He pressed the ultrasound photo to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, again and again. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Vanja watched him, detached. Her own tears were spent. A strange, cold clarity settled over her. The ghost in the static was real. It was a fact. And facts, as Roman so loved to say, demanded strategy.
“Stop,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. Max looked at her, his face ravaged. “Apologizing is a waste of energy. We need to talk about the wedding.”
He blinked, stunned by her shift. “Vanja…”
“Roman will move quickly. He’ll want it before I show.” She placed a hand on her still-flat stomach. “If I’m to be a bride, I will not be a puppet. I have conditions.”
Max wiped his face with the heel of his hand, composing himself with visible effort. “Name them.”
“I choose the dress. Myself. No committee, no stylist imposed by him.”
“Done.”
“My parents are invited. Properly invited. Not summoned. Asked.”
He nodded slowly. “I’ll handle it.”
“And you,” she said, turning to face him fully on the soft leather seat. “You look at me. You see me. Not just this.” She touched her stomach. “And not just as something you won from your father. You see me. Or this is all just a very expensive funeral.”
He reached for her then, cradling her face. His blue eyes, red-rimmed, held hers with a desperate intensity. “I see you. God, Vanja, it’s all I see.” He kissed her, and it tasted of salt and finality. It was a seal.
Roman acquiesced to her first two conditions with a dismissive wave, as if they were trivialities. The third—her agency—was a battle fought in a different theatre. It was fought in Roman’s study two nights later, a room of dark wood and low light. He’d presented her with a portfolio from a bridal designer she knew he owned a stake in. The gowns were cold, architectural things.
“I don’t like them,” she said, closing the folder.
“Your taste is not the point,” Roman replied, not looking up from his desk.
“The woman wearing it is.” She stood. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her voice was steady. She walked around the vast desk. He finally lifted his gaze, a flicker of interest there. She didn’t speak. She let her actions do the talking. She lowered herself slowly to her knees on the Persian rug, the thick wool scratchy through her stockings. She held his icy blue stare as she unbuttoned his tailored trousers. He didn’t help. He didn’t move. He watched.
She took him in her mouth, her technique slow, deliberate, almost clinical. She used her tongue in a specific, flat rhythm she knew he favored. She hollowed her cheeks. He let her continue for several minutes, his breathing the only sign of effect. Then, his hand came down to tangle in her hair, not guiding, just possessing. “You think this changes my mind?” he murmured, his voice thick.
She pulled back, leaving him glistening and hard. “I know it does.” She stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I will choose my own dress. From a boutique I choose. Or your grandchild will be born out of wedlock, and every tabloid from here to Moscow will have a field day with the story of how you couldn’t control your son’s whore.”
A dangerous smile played on his lips. He tucked himself away, zipped up. “You’re learning.” He leaned back in his chair. “Choose your dress.”
The wedding was held at the Orangerie at Kew Gardens, a glass palace filled with the scent of lemon trees and gardenias. Europe’s richest were indeed there, a murmuring tapestry of silk and power. Her parents stood out, her mother’s eyes wide with a mix of awe and anxiety, her father, Zoran, deep in conversation with Roman, two titans sizing each other up. They were happy, genuinely happy, seeing only a brilliant match, a secure future for their daughter. Their joy was a bell jar over her own, separate and distorting.
Vanja’s gown was her victory. It was nothing Roman would have chosen. It was antique lace, delicately embroidered, with a high neck and long sleeves that hugged her arms, flowing into a soft, forgiving silhouette that whispered rather than shouted. It felt like a secret against her skin. When she walked toward Max, who waited beneath a bower of white roses, his expression shifted from nervousness to something like reverence. He looked at her, just as she’d demanded. Not the spectacle, but the woman.
The ceremony was a blur of vowels exchanged, of a heavy platinum band sliding onto her finger. When they were pronounced husband and wife, Max leaned in. His kiss was not one of performative passion for the crowd. It was slow, deep, and trembling with a relief so profound it felt like grief in reverse. “My wife,” he whispered against her lips, the words a prayer and a promise.
The reception swirled around them—champagne, canapés, the low thrum of a string quartet. But they existed in a bubble. Max’s hand never left the small of her back. He smiled, he shook hands, but his attention was a lighthouse beam fixed solely on her. For the first time since the jet, the knot in Vanja’s chest began to loosen. The weight of the ring on her finger felt less like a chain and more like an anchor. She saw Roman watching them from across the room, a glass of vodka in his hand, his face unreadable. She met his gaze and gave him a small, private smile. He inclined his head, a fractional nod. An understanding passed between them, fraught and complex.
Later, in the penthouse suite of The Savoy, the noise of the world fell away. Rose petals were scattered on the bed, a cliché that made them both laugh, a soft, shared sound in the quiet room. Max stood behind her, his fingers working slowly on the countless tiny buttons of her lace gown. Each release was a sigh. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in just a silk slip. He turned her to face him.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice ragged. “It hurts to look at you.”
He undressed himself with none of his usual predatory grace, just a blunt need. His skin was warm under her palms. He laid her back on the petal-strewn duvet, covering her body with his, and kissed her like he was dying of thirst and she was the only source of water. It was tender, and slow, and unbearably sweet. When he entered her, it was with a choked gasp, his forehead pressed to hers. “Vanja,” he breathed, the name a broken thing.
Their lovemaking that night had a different quality. It was not the frantic, possessive claiming of the penthouse or the jet. It was a reclamation. He moved inside her with a reverence that made her eyes burn. He worshipped her swollen breasts, the subtle new curve of her belly. He whispered words in German, then other things, endearments she barely understood, against her damp skin. When her climax came, it built slowly, a warm tide rather than a crashing wave, drawing a soft, sobbing cry from her throat. He followed moments after, his release wracking his entire body, and he collapsed upon her, his weight a welcome shelter.
“I love you,” he said into the hollow of her neck, the words muffled but stark. “I have from the first second I saw you. I was just too much of a coward to know it.”
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him inside her, holding them together in the dark. “I know.”
They honeymooned on the Karelia, the family yacht, a sleek, white beast gliding through the cerulean waters of the Mediterranean. The days were a sun-drenched dream. They swam in coves of water so clear it seemed they floated in air. They ate peaches so ripe the juice ran down their chins. They made love in the master stateroom with its infinite view of the sea, and again in the filtered sunlight of the private upper deck, and once, daringly, in the tender as it bobbed in a secluded bay.
Vanja was happy. The happiness was fragile, a soap bubble glinting with improbable rainbows, but it was real. She wore it in her relaxed smile, in the way she let Max feed her strawberries, in the lazy afternoons spent reading while her husband worked through a stack of contracts, his feet tangled with hers.
They never spoke of Roman. They didn’t need to. His presence was a thin, high cloud on the horizon, a change in the barometric pressure they both felt. They knew he would come. The when of it was the only question. The uncertainty was the thread of scratchy wool woven through the silk of their days, a constant, low-grade awareness that kept their happiness sharp, precious, and acutely temporary.
One evening, as the sun bled into the sea, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and purple, Vanja stood at the teak rail. Max came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, his hands splaying protectively over her stomach. She leaned back into his warmth.
“He’ll come soon,” Max said quietly, his lips against her temple.
She watched the water, a darkening expanse of unknown depth. “I know.”
They stood there in silence, holding onto their bubble, watching the first stars appear as the yolk of the sun was swallowed whole by the sea. The air was warm, scented with salt and anticipation. The thread pulled taut.