“Tell me, Alexandra—how did you get into my passport?” I read out her name from the stamp.
“I don’t know. That wasn’t me,” she blurts.
“And our first wedding night—did we have one? I don’t remember… ”
“The heart of a bachelor, the well-known restaurant critic—finally occupied,” interrupts us the voice of a journalist on TV.
“His wife became an ordinary waitress. So does such a rushed marriage mean that… she’s pregnant?”
In the footage, it’s me and Sasha. She argues with me the way she always does, and I sink into her lips with a kiss.
“Yeah, right…” I exhale skeptically, glancing at her.
“So you’re the kind of wife it is. I don’t remember anything, of course, but there’s a marriage stamp. By the passport, you’re my wife.
“I also don’t know how this happened,” she looks away. “I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you— not for any money,” she declares boldly.
“Anyway, you figure it out yourselves. I’m going home.”
“We won’t let you go anywhere from here! You’ll stay my wife until I give the order: ‘Enough.’ Until then, you’ll obediently fulfill your marital duty.
And besides, did you hear what the reporters said? Pregnant…,”