“Yes, they make fancams of him and everything,” Willa says, then apologizes when a strand of my hair gets caught in her big ass ring.
“Fan what?”
“Wouldn’t dinner be better?” I ask before Willa can explain stan culture to Vanessa. “Then I could wear an evening dress instead of whatever this is.”
I gesture in the general direction of the outfit which I never, never, would have chosen for myself.
“You’re already salaciously younger than him, you need to be photographed in the light of day so you don’t look like some torrid love affair only marrying him because of his money,” Willa says.
“I have my own money,” I say. “I’m a Morelli.”
“Yes, but he has more,” Willa says.
“More legal money, at least. Jury is out on the rest, we have yet to compare coffers,” Vanessa muses before locking her phone and setting it on the lip of the tub next to her. “You think thefamigliais intense about appearances, the Russians are worse. You look perfect. Very Jackie Kennedy.”
“Exactly!” Willa exclaims like someone finally sees her vision. “The heavy black eyeliner and tall boots always make you look younger. You can go back to that when the whole East Coast isn’t trying to learn who has captured the heart of Maxim Orlov.”
I sigh but don’t protest more.
I feel ridiculous in this plum dress. It’s got a high neck, a white scallop collar, and pearly buttons down the front. Willa says it’s couture and will be better received than a black leather jumpsuit or whatever the hell I usually wear. I resented this comment because in what world would I be wearing a leather jumpsuit to a Saturday morning brunch? A black sweater? Yes. Jeans? Probably.
The skirt is short enough to not make my legs look tiny, and long enough that I can hide a small handgun in an upper-thigh holster. The new tights are nice enough, too, and I do like the boots. Calf-high, black, and a little retro with a chunky heel.
“You can make me look as wholesome as you want, but I doubt anything will make him look like I’vecaptured his heart,” I mock.
“You worry about your own face. Maxim will be fine,” Vanessa says. She absently rubs a hand over her own round belly, which is past the point of being able to hide, but still not as massive as Willa’s.
“You look nice,” Nate says from the door, way too enthusiastic. His ugly dog, Ranger, follows in, a loyal sentinel, and when he stretches his paws on my ankle, I lean over and scratch his head.
“Don’t sound so surprised, dickwad.”
“Dickwad,” Nate murmurs before he leans over and presses a long kiss on Vanessa’s cheek. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not creative, Mary Morelli.”
“She does look nice, thank you!” Willa says, and tugs my hair again as she finishes the braid. “See? Nice.”
“Kind of like an American Girl doll,” he adds, which makes Vanessa snort.
I glare at Willa in the mirror and she clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Well, usually you look like a Bratz doll, so I’ll take it.”
After a few more tugs and about twenty bobby pins, Willa steps back and surveys her work. It’s a single braid down the center of my back, little thin twists of hair leading into it. My bangs are their normal curly, albeit less frizzy than I usually leave them on account of the mass of taming products. Between the dress, the hair, and the simple makeup, I look exceptionally soft. If someone didn’t know me, they might even think I’m sweet, looking like this.
Friendly.
I scrunch my nose at the thought.
The doorbell rings from downstairs. Ranger yelps once, running in a circle before retreating from the crowded bathroom and trotting out.
“Let’s get on with it then,” I hop down from the stool.
“Wait!” Willa calls. I turn around, already grumpy about whatever additional primping I need, but she just holds up the big ring I’d left in the dish by the sink, the diamonds sparkling.
I take the thing, much too precious and vintage to look normal on me, and slide it back onto my finger. I’d usually wear a stack of silver rings on either of my hands, but today I wear only this. It’s a delicate, beautiful ring; shiny yellow gold and a sparkling diamond. Maxim gave it to me without fanfare on New Year’s eve, and said it was his grandmother’s, so it’s probably cursed. Like, his babushka might actively be haunting me.
“Nowyou look perfect,” Willa says with a wink before following Nate and Vanessa out of the room.
I am the tail of the procession, clipping down the stairs to the foyer where the whole family is greeting Maxim with shoulder slaps and handshakes. They’re obsessed with him, I swear.
Maxim gives each of them a slight, though genuine, smile, but his lips fall when his eyes find me where I’ve stopped near the bottom of the stairs. His shoulders are taut in his charcoal suit, and huge. I agree with Nate’s assertion that Maxim lookslike he was built like a refrigerator—the fancy, industrial kind, stainless steel and fit to hold a few week’s worth of meals and many sodas.
