The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Reception

Vladimir stood at the church's steps, blending into the line of guests as they filtered out into the afternoon sun. The ceremony had been beautiful and he couldn't remember the last time he had seen his sister so radiant. Despite his reservations about the haste into which she had delved into this marriage, the look of pure happiness in her eyes eased his mind. As for Fedor, anyone with two functioning eyes - or maybe just one would have been enough - could see how smitten he was with Irina.

Yet, despite all the happiness and emotion around him, his mind had been elsewhere, haunted by the thought of eventually crossing paths with Olga. He knew she was here—he'd caught a quick glimpse of her in the crowd—but they hadn't spoken, hadn't even exchanged a look. Until now.

As he shifted his gaze from Irina for a moment, his eyes locked on her. Olga was descending the steps with Carol at her side, her hand resting lightly on his arm. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. Time seemed to slow, his breath catching in his chest. The years fell away in that instant, all the unresolved feelings and words left unspoken crashing down on him.

But then, she looked away, her face blank as if he were a stranger. Without hesitation, Olga turned her head, keeping her focus ahead, and continued walking with Carol, her posture elegant, poised, and distant. She hadn't acknowledged him—not a flicker of recognition.

Vladimir stood frozen for a moment, his heart sinking. What had he expected? That she would stop? That she would speak to him? He clenched his jaw, forcing the thoughts aside. It was pointless. This was how it would be—her pretending as though nothing had ever happened between them. And maybe, he thought bitterly, that was how it had always been.

As the guests flowed toward the reception, Vladimir reluctantly followed. The long tables were set for the celebration, and to his dismay, it took him not long to realize that, not only was he seated near Olga and Carol, but none other than Tata was close by as well. Directly across from him, his brother Dmitri was already sitting, a grin tugging at his lips as he watched Vladimir approach. It was as if fate had conspired against him.

Tata, sitting just a few chairs down from Olga, was unmistakably in his line of sight. Their last interaction had been an awkward one, and the memory of the kiss they had almost shared haunted him almost every night. Now, seeing her again, those memories returned with vivid clarity, sharper than he could have anticipated.

She wore a pale yellow dress that barely covered her knees, the soft fabric hugging her form in a way that left little to the imagination. Her slender legs, exposed just enough to make his pulse quicken, crossed elegantly beneath the table, while her short, dark hair framed her face neatly and stopped just above her shoulders, bare beneath the dress's delicate straps.

Vladimir found himself swallowing hard. Seeing her reminded him how close they had been that day in the library. He could still picture the way her lips had almost touched his, the warmth of her presence, the softness of her skin, and how suddenly she had pulled away. Those were memories that had lingered long after and not even Olga's presence, just a few feet away, could dull the impact Tata had on him now. It hit him with an intensity that left him momentarily breathless.

Taking his seat, Vladimir felt the weight of both Olga and Tata's presence more acutely than ever. Olga sat a few chairs down, her attention firmly on Carol and the guests directly next to them. She didn't glance his way, and yet her proximity made it impossible for him to forget she was there, a ghost from the past. Meanwhile, Tata, her public persona polite as ever, offered him a smile that gave no hint of what had passed between them.

He let out a silent breath of relief for that. He was not in the mood or anywhere near ready to deal with her more provocative side and he turned toward her gratefully, deciding to focus on anything—anything—other than the complicated mess swirling around him. But still, every time he looked up, there was Dmitri across the table, waggling his eyebrows and making a subtle, teasing face that said, "Good luck. You'll need it."