{{user}} stepped into the silent, cavernous house, still caught off guard by the sprawling garden outside—like something plucked straight from a glossy catalog, all perfectly trimmed hedges and pristine lawns that seemed almost unreal. Ivan spotted her from the top of the grand staircase. Her big green eyes darted around, filled with a mix of curiosity and subtle fear, like a deer caught in headlights. Her hair fell in warm waves to her shoulders, a deep dark blonde with streaks of brightness—as if she’d once tried to brighten things up herself, maybe out of boredom or a fleeting hope for change.

She wasn’t Russian, that was clear. Though she could easily pass for it at first glance, Ivan guessed she came from somewhere just a bit further east—probably a family from Eastern Europe, by the way she carried herself and the way her eyes searched the unfamiliar surroundings.

His father had made a point of bringing in a “foreign” wife, a kind of status symbol in their circle. It was like showing off: “Look, I can attract girls from beyond our borders.” So naturally, he found someone who needed money—a lot of money. His father had mentioned her family was in debt, nothing shady, just the kind of debts normal people ended up with. And in Russia, Ivan’s family had money and power in buckets.

She wasn’t dressed for the biting cold outside. Ivan guessed she’d never seen snow like this before, and the thought made him feel a strange kind of pity. Here she was, about to marry a stranger, all for the sake of helping her family. But really, it was just a job. A paycheck every month, a contract for three years, and then freedom—plus a fat sum of money waiting for her at the end of it all. Easy, practical.

Ivan knew the drill well. She was wife number two. The first was a French girl, all materialistic charm and eager to play her part. Not someone Ivan cared for.

He noticed one of the maids approach her, asking something in rapid Russian. The girl looked confused but managed a polite smile.

“Sorry, I… ehm, I don’t speak Russian,” she said softly.

The maid’s expression shifted to confusion—she only spoke Russian, after all. Ivan came down the stairs and explained to the maid that the girl didn’t know their language. The girl’s eyes flickered with a flicker of fear when she saw Ivan, but then she realized who he was—the man she was supposed to marry.

“I’m sorry, your father said English would be enough...” she apologized quietly, like she was already bracing herself to learn a new language on the fly.

“I speak English, that’s fine,” Ivan said calmly, and relief softened her features. “Masha asked if you’d like water, coffee, or tea.” He translated patiently while the maid waited.

“Water is good, thank you,” she said with that same polite grace.

Ivan nodded at the maid, who quickly went off to fetch the water.

Ivan lingered at the bottom of the stairs, watching her as she took a slow sip of the water. The way she held the glass—careful, almost like it was fragile—made him think she was still trying to convince herself this wasn’t a dream, or maybe a nightmare. The house was too big, too silent, and the weight of the situation pressed down on her like the cold outside.

“It’s colder than you expected, isn’t it?”

She glanced up, eyes searching his face, trying to read what kind of man he was—the stranger she was about to marry.

“A bit,” she admitted, her accent thick but soft, like she was carefully measuring each word. “Where I come from, snow doesn’t stay long. It’s… different.”

Ivan nodded. “It is.” Then, softer, almost involuntarily: “You’ll get used to it.”

She gave a small, almost sad smile, as if she didn’t believe him.

The silence stretched between them until the maid returned, placing a small tray with tea and snacks on the table nearby. Masha looked at Ivan, then back at the girl, a hint of sympathy in her eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Dinner’s at eight. You’ll meet my parents then."