Crimson vows
It weighs more than my broken pointe shoes because dreams are heavy when they die.
How did we get here?
I am Anastasia Volkov. Anya to the few who still care. Daughter of Dimitri Volkov, once the king of oil and steel.
Before the crash, our name opened every door in Moscow. Papa’s parties filled three floors. Crystal chandeliers, Caviar Mountains, women in diamonds that hurt to look at.
I wore silk dresses that cost more than cars, soft against my skin, bright like candy. I smiled for the cameras, teeth perfect, chin high. “The Volkov princess,” they called me in magazines and at parties. I hated the name; it sounded weak, like a doll.