Young Writers Society

“Oh, Marta, you are too beautiful. You must go, get a better life in America.”

That’s what my mother had said, sending me to Moscow. They took pictures of me for the website, so the rich men could see what they like. They didn’t look like me—it seemed a man would take one look at me in person and claim the whole thing was a fraud.

It had only been a couple days before the first message came from a Mr. Ron Peterson. He seemed enamored with me instantly, using strange words like “luscious” and “radiant”. He said he was a man of refined tastes. As his wife, anything my heart desired would be mine.

A life of luxury in America would be a far cry from my life of next to nothing in Russia. He insisted on coming to gaze upon me in person. The agency said that he could say what he wanted, but any marriage was my decision alone.

The morning he came, they told me to wear the nicest dress in my possession. My new friend Ivana helped fix me up so my photos perhaps would not look so deceiving. A limousine pulled up and Mr. Ron Peterson exited.

“Marta!” He greeted me with a brief kiss. His lips felt rough, but he did smell nice. Ivana said the men normally reek. He stepped back, appraising me.

“Wow. You look… dazzling. Your photo is dust in comparison.” My cheeks flushed. Though Mr. Ron Peterson was older, he was surprisingly handsome. His hair was gray but styled well, and his green eyes still shined like a younger man. He was one of those men where the lines on his face add character instead of just making him look old. Perhaps being his wife would not be so bad after all.

“Thank you, Mr. Peter—“

“Please, call me Ron.”

“Well, thank you, Ron.”

“You are most welcome, my lady. Allow me to take you to lunch. Anything you want, no matter the cost.”

We gorged on food and wine finer than anything from my previous life. The day went by quickly as we explored Moscow, sharing stories and laughing. On the way to dinner, he grabbed my hand. It felt smooth, warm, like it could squeeze away all of my worries. As dessert came, he went down on one knee.

“Oh, Marta, today has been too wonderful. Let me try to bring you joy that you have already brought me.” The ring he offered with his proposal was large beyond imagination. It seemed so sudden, but wasn’t that how it went? He seemed very kind, and from the stories other ladies told, such suitors as Mr. Peterson were rare. Finally, my lips formed an answer.

“Yes.” He slipped the ring on my finger, then stood up to kiss me. Not a greeting kiss this time, but a lover’s kiss. When boys had kissed me before, they felt timid, inexperienced. But Mr. Peterson was stronger, demanding but not too forceful. When it ended, it was nice to think there would be many more to come.

The next day, he took me to a bridal salon filled with wedding dresses. He watched me model gown after gown, finally picking one and saying it was perfect. The price tag was more than my mother would make in a year. Was everything Mr. Peterson—Ron—owned so expensive?

The church was almost empty—just me, Ron, the priest, a man from the agent, and Ivana. She seemed worried about how quickly this all transpired, but she said Ron didn’t seem like the normal slimeballs that come through the agency. When my mother heard the news, she cried in joy and wished that she could come. But there was no time—our flight to New York would be the next day.

“You may now kiss the bride!” And with that, Ron kissed me for the third time. In exchange for a new life in America, he owned me. From now on, my name would be Mrs. Ron Peterson.

A/N: This is my (silver medal winning) entry for the "Me, Myself, and..." event where we had to write a first person story without using I. It is a prequel to my No E's submission, which I will link to when I publish it.