Snow fell like a gentle cascade from the heavens, blanketing the streets of the small Russian town in pristine white. The annual winter festival was the highlight of the year, transforming the usually quiet town into a bustling haven of bright lights, food stalls, and cheerful music. Despite the festive atmosphere, Anastasia Volkova trudged reluctantly through the cobblestone streets, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, her breath visible in the icy air.
Her parents had insisted she attend, though not out of concern for her enjoyment. “You should be useful and help your siblings,” her mother had snapped earlier that day, dismissing Anastasia’s quiet protest. Her siblings, Yelena and Dmitri, were their pride and joy, showered with affection and praise that Anastasia had long since stopped hoping for.
As she passed by the glowing stalls, she couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. Vendors sold steaming cups of mulled wine, ornate Matryoshka dolls, and intricate lace scarves. Children ran around, their laughter mingling with the distant sounds of a balalaika band playing a lively tune. Yet Anastasia felt out of place, like an intruder in a world of warmth and joy.
Clutching her scarf tighter around her neck, she stopped at a small coffee stall. The vendor, a cheerful old man with a thick gray beard, handed her a steaming cup of black coffee. She muttered a quiet “спасибо” (thank you) and walked away, her eyes scanning the festival for her siblings. They had dashed off the moment they arrived, leaving her to fend for herself.
As Anastasia turned a corner, absorbed in her thoughts, she collided with something—or rather, someone—hard and unyielding.
The impact sent her stumbling backward, the coffee in her hands spilling onto the pristine white coat of the man she had just bumped into.
“Черт возьми!” (Damn it!) a deep voice growled, laced with irritation.
Anastasia froze, her heart racing. Before her stood a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp, chiseled features and piercing gray eyes that seemed to cut through the wintry haze. His dark hair was tousled in a way that looked effortlessly perfect, and his jawline was shadowed with just the right amount of stubble. Everything about him screamed wealth and authority, from the designer coat now marred with coffee stains to the confident way he carried himself.
“I’m so sorry,” Anastasia stammered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t see you—”
“Clearly,” he interrupted, brushing at his coat with a gloved hand. “Do you have any idea how much this coat costs?”
Anastasia’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. She had no response to that. Her gaze dropped to the ground, shame prickling at her skin.
The man sighed, his irritation ebbing slightly as he took in her hunched shoulders and trembling hands. “Forget it,” he said, his tone softening. “It’s just a coat.”
Anastasia looked up, surprised. She hadn’t expected forgiveness, least of all from someone who looked like him—someone who clearly belonged to a world far removed from hers.
“Here,” he added, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her.
She hesitated, then took it with a murmured “thank you.”
“I’m Aleksandr,” he said, his eyes studying her curiously. “Aleksandr Mikhailov.”
Anastasia blinked, recognition flickering in her mind. The Mikhailov name was practically a legend in their town. The family owned one of the largest vodka empires in Russia, their wealth and influence reaching far beyond the town’s borders. She had never imagined meeting one of them, let alone under such humiliating circumstances.
“I’m Anastasia Volkova,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aleksandr raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Volkova? Ah, the family with the golden children. I’ve heard about you.”
Anastasia flinched at the mention of her family. Of course, everyone in town knew of the Volkovas’ perfect façade—the talented, successful siblings, and the doting parents. No one ever noticed the quiet girl who lingered in the background, her achievements overshadowed by those of her siblings.
“I suppose you’ve only heard about my brother and sister,” she said bitterly, surprising herself with the edge in her tone.
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~P¿nda 🐼
