“We’ll talk about the agreement when I’m back. Tell your father everything is fine.”
That’s a blatant lie, but I can’t have the distraction of managing him right now. This is something I can put off, deter until I’m ready to deal with it, and I will.
Because putting distance between myself and Mara right now is not an option.
I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line, can imagine the calculations running through her head. Svetlana doesn't love me—she never has. This marriage was always about power, about position, about the strategic advantage of combining our families. But she's proud, and she won't take rejection well.
Thankfully, I’m not rejecting her just yet.
“When are you coming back?” she asks finally.
“I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I do.” I hang up before she can respond.
The meeting I left is still going on. We were discussing quarterly projections, market expansions, all the mundane details of running a legitimate business empire that overlays thefilthier one. The empire I could present to Mara as a front for who I really am.
But in time, I want her to know all of me. Eventually, she'll know everything.
And I'll make sure she understands that it doesn't matter. That nothing matters except the fact that she's mine, that there's no escaping what we are to each other.
There’s no escaping me.
9
MARA
The morning after the break-in and the unhelpful visit from the police, I decide to start trying to take matters into my own hands. I start with the rose.
I sit at my coffee table with my laptop open and my phone beside me with my notes app open to a list of what reads like the digital version of frantic scribbles. I feel like I've barely slept. I need to get to the bottom of this, or I feel like I might never sleep again.
The first florist I call is a high-end shop in the West Village. A woman with a pleasant voice answers on the third ring.
"Hi, I'm calling about black roses," I say, trying to sound casual, like this is a normal request. "Do you carry them?"
There's a pause. "Black roses? No, I'm sorry, we don't. They don't actually exist naturally—any black roses you see are either very dark red roses or they've been dyed or spray-painted."
"Could you special order them? If someone wanted them dyed a specific way?"
"We could, but it's not something we typically do. Most clients prefer natural flowers. May I ask what this is for?"
"Just curious," I say, and hang up before she can ask more questions.
I call six more florists. The responses are variations on the same theme: black roses aren't real, they'd have to be specially treated, it's not a common request. One shop says they could do it but it would take at least a week and cost twice as much as a usual bouquet. Another suggests I try a specialty flower shop in Brooklyn.
That one provides a small lead. The woman who answers tells me that they did have an order placed recently for a single black rose, a rush order. When I ask her to describe the man who bought it, though, she shuts down.
“Why are you asking?” Her voice sharpens, an edge to it as if I’m the one doing something wrong.
“I’m just curious. Someone left one for me, and I’m wondering?—”
“I wasn’t here when the order was placed. One of my employees was.”
“Could you possibly have them call me?—”
“I don’t want my employees being badgered over identifying orders. And we don’t give out customer information.”
“If I could just call back?—”
The woman hangs up, and I know I’ve hit a dead end.
