Sunlight streamed through the cheap blinds, casting mottled shadows across the room. Igor had left early that morning, saying he'd be swamped but promising to return for our celebration. I chose to trust him.
I'd been preparing for this milestone for weeks. I snagged some high-quality cowhide from a thrift market and spent several weekends hand-stitching him a wallet. My skills weren't expert-level—my fingertips got pricked bloody by the needle more than once—but every stitch was infused with my affection. In the bottom right corner, I branded his initials with a hot copper stamp: I.V.
I nestled it into a carefully wrapped gift box, tied with a deep blue ribbon in a perfect bow. I imagined his expression when he opened it. Would he like it? A man accustomed to every luxury.
I shook off the insecurities. I'd even finagled two hours off from the hotel manager so I could leave early and prepare a lavish dinner for him.
That afternoon, in the staff locker room as I changed into my uniform, my coworker Susan sidled up, brimming with secrecy.
"Elena, have you heard?" she whispered, her eyes gleaming with gossip.
"Heard what?" I replied, pulling on my uniform while my mind wandered to the evening's menu for Igor.
"Tomorrow night, the Royal Hotel is throwing this enormous private party. They've booked the entire ballroom floor and all the presidential suites!" Her voice rose with excitement, drawing curious glances from the other staff.
"Really? What kind of party warrants that?" I asked casually, adjusting my tie.
"It's prep for some Russian family's engagement bash!" Susan said, her tone dripping with envy. "Can you imagine? All of New York's elite might show up! My friend who works there says the security is insane—tighter than a presidential visit!"
Russian family... The words struck like a hammer to my chest. An inexplicable unease gripped me, Igor's chiseled face flashing into my mind uninvited.
"And," Susan continued, oblivious to my reaction, lost in her enthusiasm. "The groom's from the Vorontsov family—their heir. He's really invested in this. My friend said they ordered five hundred bottles of Ace of Spades champagne! God, the expense!"
Vorontsov. The name didn't ring a bell, so I let out a breath, chiding myself for being paranoid. New York was full of Russianmoguls; it couldn't be that coincidental. The nagging thoughts dissipated.
I pulled out my phone to check if Igor had replied to my morning message. The screen lit up with his text: [I'll pick you up at the hotel by 8. We'll celebrate back at the apartment.]
My suspended heart settled back into place.
I replied immediately: [Okay, I'll be waiting!]
Another vibration—a WhatsApp message. I opened it to the familiar avatar—an endless field of Tuscan sunflowers. Marco Bernardi.
Marco: [Elena, Christmas is coming up. How have you been lately?]
Marco was the boy I'd grown up with in the slums, like a brother to me. A few years older, he'd always looked out for me, my steadfast support through my turbulent teens. He'd gone to Italy for medical school, and we hadn't seen each other in years, keeping in touch only sporadically online.
I smiled and typed: [I'm doing well. How about you? Everything going smoothly in Italy?]
Marco: [All good here. I'll be back in New York this Christmas to visit my grandma. Want to grab dinner?]
Me: [Absolutely, just let me know when!]
Chatting with Marco always felt light and nostalgic, like stepping back into those carefree childhood days.
I pocketed my phone and threw myself into work. The thought of celebrating with Igor gave me a burst of energy that carried me through the shift.
At seven, his text came in and shattered all my anticipation. He had an emergency meeting; I should head home alone, and he'd finish up as soon as possible to meet me at the apartment.
Disappointment hit hard, but I convinced myself to be understanding. His world was so complex; he had obligations he couldn't escape.
I left work early, returned to the apartment, tied on an apron, and got busy inthe kitchen.
I started with the steaks. Butter sizzled in the pan as soon as it hit, and I added the meat, the savory aroma quickly filling the space. Once they were done, I plated them elegantly, mimicking tutorial videos with Italian-style garnishes and fresh greens, aiming for that high-end restaurant feel. I lit scented candles and decanted his favorite Burgundy wine.
Everything ready, I slipped into the black silk gown he'd given me, applied a flawless makeup look, and sat at the table, heart full of eager anticipation for his arrival.
But the minutes dragged on.
