Anna, as was entirely usual, sat within her room, having just finished another painting. Something within that lovely face was conflicted. It was the same conflict she always struggled with.

And it was getting old.

In fact, Anna looked as though she had just finished crying. A grand passion had come over her as that brush filled in hues and shades. That poor core began to sing, and the notes were simply too sad.

Then, the door opened.

And Natasha came in.

"Hello, Anna. It's good to see you're not smoking."

The opposite said nothing. Those worn blue windows simply lifted from the carpet, to her mother's visage.

"Oh, well what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Why did you come in here, mother?"

The elder's brows seemed to drop slightly, lips curling into something somewhat dissatisfied. However, no words were given in opposition. Natasha simply went on with business. "I came to talk to you about your wedding."

"My wedding?"

"Yes. It seems to me that you and Francis get along rather well."

"We do get along well."

"So, you're both going to get married then, aren't you? You haven't driven this one away, and either of you make a nice couple."

Nothing.

"It's been a few months, hasn't it? You've gotten to know one another."

Nothing .

"Damn it, child! What's the matter?"

"I don't love him…I like him and he's a wonderful friend. But I simply haven't fallen in love."

Natasha laughed. "Do you honestly think marriage is about love? When I married your father, I hardly knew the man. Sometimes liking one another is all you can ask for. It's certainly better than hating one another. Besides, can't you see it, Anna? You two can set up a lovely family together-with little children and your own house full of those paintings-"

Anna leaned further back into her chair.

And she thought.

Tiny French Children with golden blond hair. A gorgeous house brimming with all her artwork. A life devoid of Natasha. A life devoid of any more fiancés.

A life devoid of Alfred.

That one fucking hurt.

A hard breath. A horrendous choke.

The worst part was that Natasha was right.

"Did you and father like one another?"

"Yes. We did like one another."

"Then what the hell happened? There's no love left in this place. You can't fool me into thinking you two actually have any affection left for one another. I can see the neutrality radiating off of you. You're here. And father's here. But neither of you are here together. You do your respective jobs separately. An only mother and an only father living beneath a single roof. Like doesn't last for twenty years. It doesn't last for ten. I'm certain it can hardly last for five." A difficult choke.

Natasha merely watched her daughter.

"I want a marriage like Andrei and Ellis will have. I can't imagine them not loving one another. But I won't have that with Francis. I know I won't."

The poor Russian girl was beginning to break down.

The mother sighed.

"Anna, can you love anyone? We've introduced you to so many men, and you've managed to drive them all away. You did that on purpose. Frankly, you're getting far too old to wait another six years for someone you genuinely love to come along. All of your time has been wasted on painting. It's been wasted on brushes and colors and canvases. You weren't interested in love, or men, or finding someone to spend the rest of your life with. If anything, this is your own fault. And you're going to tell me that you don't want to marry a beautiful rich man that you genuinely like because you just can't be madly in love?"

Anna was beginning to weep. So Natasha's tone merely became louder.

"No spouses love one another after a long enough time. You marry because it's normal. Because everyone is meant to have a family. It's how society progresses! And it's time that you moved on from being a little girl. You're a grown woman, Anna. Leave your father's home and make your own life."

An unsettling pause.

"I'm certain you can still become pregnant, Anna. Let's just hope it's not too late; you're going to get married soon after Andrei. And you're going to marry Francis Bonfeuille."

Tears.

"I suggest you begin wearing more gowns. You can't be a mother in trousers."

The door shut behind the cruel woman. And Anna broke into misery.

Never before had she felt so hopeless.

And never had Natasha been so right.

That was part of the problem.

Poor Miss Ivanovna was shoved into a corner. The entire world was staring at her. The sights of her relentless family. The eyes of Francis. The star of her beautiful Alfred.

Yes. She would have to choose.

And the most logical choice was the Frenchman, who she could simply not bring herself to love.

It was horrendous to imagine being in that position. Being a wife, wearing a gown, giving birth to little French infants, with their father's face and their mother's terribly sharp eyes. It was even more difficult to admit that those children would be absolutely lovely.

How stupid she was.

How incredibly stupid she was.

Anna did not leave that room for the rest of the day.