“I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved a man, but I think I know how it must feel to lose someone you love. A bit, anyway.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to cry. My eyes are swollen and sore and my throat aches from sobbing. I’m a mess. “I know you’ve lost so much too. I’m sorry you worked so hard on this wedding just for that bastard to destroy everything.”
Inessa chuckles through her tears. “Eh. Screw him. Look…” She pulls up a chair. “I know this whole thing is horrible, but let’s do something for you. Let’s go out to dinner. Let’s dress up and…” she eyes me meaningfully, “brush your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It looks like an abandoned opossum den,” she says flatly.
“Harsh truths, sister,” I say.
She gives me a shrug.
“Look, I appreciate your kindness, but I don’t want to go anywhere. I can’t… pretend,” I say. But she’s looking at me pleadingly and it’s been so long since I felt like we had a real interaction. Not since the beginning days in Boston, when all we had was each other.
So, I put on a nice dress and take a shot at my hair. It’s thick and gleefully rats up with the slightest provocation, and I’m working with four days of bedhead. I get halfway through wrestling my hair into submission when I make the mistake of looking at the mirror.
The woman looking back at me, wearing the expensive dress, has hollow eyes that don’t reflect anything. They’re pools of misery, perfect for drowning in. I’m still staring with my brush in hand when Inessa bustles in, radiating expensive perfume and determination.
“You’re not ready!” she says, “The car’s waiting. Here, sit down.”
“Inessa, I-”
“Nope!” She holding my hairbrush like a club. “We’re going to go out and show St. Petersburg that the Dubrovina women aren’t weak. We’ll show them that we’re sisters and can’t be broken apart by the Turgenevs.”
She brushes and lectures and I don’t have time to think of a defense before she’s done and propels me out the door. Two men slide into the front seat, I know they’re our family’s soldiers. There’s another car following us with an additional four Turgenev thugs.
“Ignore them.” She catches me looking behind us. “They’re not ruining this night for us, okay?”
“Where are we going?” I’m regretting this already, my feet hurt in these high heels and my skin feels scrubbed raw. I wish I was back home in my room, drinking ginger tea and dreaming of Alexi.
“A new restaurant,” she says, fussing with my hair. “It’s very popular, but I got a private room in the back for us.”
“Thank you,” I’m warmed by her consideration. “I don’t want to be around a lot of people. I don’t know how long I can fake it.”
“You might actually enjoy yourself a little bit,” she points out. “Just enough to take your mind off things for a while.”
My heart sinks when we pull up to the “restaurant.” It’s a nightclub, complete with spotlights flashing through the sky and a long line of people waiting to get in.
“Don’t worry about them,” she flaps her hand dismissively, “we have our way in.” One of the Turgenev guards speaks to the bouncer, who immediately holds the door open for us. “Ah, I’ll miss that part,” she says, linking arms with me as we walk down a side hallway, “all the VIP treatment, no waiting in line like aprostolyudin,a commoner.”
Watching her uneasily, I see Inessa coming alive. Her eyes are sparkling and she’s nodding regally to other clubgoers as we pass them. Their speculative looks and whispers are making me nauseous again. She walks with a strut, showing off her tiny waist and curvy hips.
“Are we almost to the private room?” I ask wearily.
“Yes!” She throws open the door and her iron grip on my arm is the only thing holding me in place. The room is decorated with dick-shaped balloons and streamers, and all of her friends are there, the other Bratva princesses who used to mock me, calling me “plumpy” and the Snow Monster.
“You told me that we were having dinner, just you and me,” I say between gritted teeth. “Jesus Christ, Inessa! I’m going home.”
“Oh, no you’re not!” she sang brightly, hauling me into the room. “I have the car keys, so to speak. Come on, everyone’s here to celebrate.”
I sit in the corner, pulling off the plastic tiara every time she puts it back on my head. Everyone’s already halfway to shitfaced, so I can drink water from a champagne flute without anyone noticing.
Inessa’s friends are praising her. “You’re so sweet and generous,” Mila says. She’s from the Agapov Bratva, the spoiled daughter of the Pakhan. “After everything she’s done to you, you’re still trying to make her happy!”
A cold pit opens in my stomach. This isn’t a sister's dinner. This is purely presentational, designed to make it look like Inessa is the noble victim.
“I want to go home,” I stand abruptly. “I’ll call and get one of the drivers to come for me.”
