My Russian Mail-Order Bride

Chapter One

A/N
hello everyone i just wanted to give a quick note! i hope you enjoy the story and i'm looking forward to hearing your feedback <3
p.s. trixie's hair during this fic is based off of IQ Kitty bc i'm a sucker for trixie w/ pink hair ;) also, i'm sorry if the russian is incorrect, i'm using google translate and doing some research online for the culture. i hope it's as accurate as possible, but please excuse any mistakes :)
{cis!woman trixie/cis!woman katya}

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     Trixie was alone. Unbearably, pitifully, overwhelmingly alone. She often thought of what her life would be like if her father hadn't left; if her mom hadn't passed. Sure, she received a heavy inheritance, enough for her to live a lavish life three times over, but money couldn't buy happiness, right? She was unaware that it in fact, could.
     She woke up at 10 am sharp, as usual. Sitting up, she stretched her 21-year-old bones.
"I feel like an old woman." she grumbled to herself, twisting so she could crack her back, and sighing when a satisfying pop relieved the tension that was paining her. She pulled back her duvet—pink like everything else Trixie owned—and swung her long legs over her bedside. She tugged at the hem of her nightgown, a baby pink silk slip with lavender lace lining the bottom and top hemlines. Impossibly thin straps adorned her delicate shoulders, and she liked the way they sat on her dainty collarbones. She got up and started toward the in-suite master bathroom, which was a bit of a walk considering how unnecessarily large the rooms of her home were, and started her morning shower routine. This house (ahem- mansion) was included in her inheritance, and she didn't want to go through the trouble of selling it and looking for a new one; moving all her things, and being stressed about every meticulous detail and piece of paperwork. It's not that she didn't love the house—it was gorgeous. White marble with gold flakes lined the walls and floors, she had an amazing kitchen with the latest and greatest appliances (not that she ever cooked, she felt bad the beautiful space went to waste), artwork adorned the hallways with marble and ceramic statues accompanying them, a movie theater, a pool, a tennis court, and more rooms than Trixie could list. It would be most people's wet dream to live in a place like this, but the large archways and seemingly never-ending rooms made Trixie feel small and alone. And that's because she was. She lived there by herself, and she didn't work so she had no true friends anymore, (except for an old best friend from elementary school that she barely talked to, and the snooty women at the cocktail parties she was obligated to attend. She didn't go out often, but she felt the need to uphold the family name and keep her mother's poised, socially graceful reputation alive by pretending it was passed down along to Trixie. She hated it. She didn't know how her mother managed. Rubbing elbows with people who thought themselves above her, mingling with meaningless small talk and gritting her teeth to keep the forced smile on her lips. It was Trixie's personal hell. She forced herself to go to two events per year, for the sake of her late mother's elegant image.), and her family was either estranged or dead. The only family she really ever had was her mother and her grandparents. Her grandparents had long since passed away, but the wound of her mother's passing was still heavy and bleeding in her heart. It had only been a year and a half since her death, and Trixie still felt her heart sink and her eyes welling up every day. The memories of nurses pooling into her home twice a month and administering chemotherapy, how hollow and delicate her mother's cheekbones and eye sockets had become in her final days, and the haunting feeling of her mother's hand going limp in her own for a final time flashed in her mind every night.
    As she stepped out of the shower, she thought of what she would do that day, yet nothing new or particularly interesting was an option. She stood in front of the large mirror hung above the double sink-clad vanity, and brushed out her hair. It was a pretty pink color, her favorite. She didn't particularly know why she bothered to dye her hair, as no one would see her—except the people that delivered her grocery order once every two weeks, but she settled on the thought that it made her happy so it didn't matter if no one else saw it. She dried her hair and body groggily, styling her pink curls into a half-updo and walked back into her bedroom trying to decide on an outfit. She pulled out a vintage baby pink halter dress that fell a bit above her knees with little blue flowers embroidered on, white thigh high stockings and her favorite white platform boots with pink 60's themed flowers printed on. She liked getting dressed up everyday, granted she would only stay home or go vintage shopping on occasion, it made her smile and she liked the feeling of looking put together—even if it was for no one but herself. While she sat at her vanity doing her makeup, she had a startling thought crawl it's way to the front of her mind.

"what if you're alone forever?"
Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth and she swallowed hard.

"what if you stay here until you're old and gray, and die surrounded by cats like a crazy woman?"
she hated cats, but company is company, and she was well on her way to getting one just so she wouldn't lose her mind.

"no one will mourn you. no one will even know you're gone."

     She abruptly stood, the stool tipping over behind her, and fast-walked through a hallway and down a never ending set of stairs. When she opened the door to the library, she dropped into her luxurious desk chair with a huff, turning on her Mac.
      She refused to be alone any longer; she was going to find someone.