I nod as if I was listening all along. “Very generous.”
Sveltlana has a slight frown on her face, her perfect composure cracking just a little. She studies me for a moment longer, then turns back to the conversation. But I can feel her awareness, her attention on me even as she talks to someone else. She knows I'm distracted. She just doesn't know why.
“Let’s find a seat,” I say after a few more moments, taking her arm. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
The dinner is multi-course, a $1,700-per-plate ordeal that means sitting for a lengthy period of time at a table with a group of people who love the sound of their own voices. The wine served is excellent, which makes it slightly more tolerable, and the food itself is very good as well. We’re served Caesar salads and a tomato bisque laced with sherry and cream for an appetizer, then lamb shanks crusted in gorgonzola and roasted potatoes and vegetables for a main, with a cheese plate to follow and then souffles for dessert. Svetlana sits beside me, her hand occasionally touching my arm, reminding everyone that we're together. I can feel the possessiveness in her touch, and I wonder how much of it stems from real desire on her part, and how much is her need to claim me because she’s been instructed to.
I, for my part, feel nothing. No desire, no interest, no connection. She's beautiful and sophisticated and exactly what I should want, but I feel absolutely nothing.
All I can think about is a woman I saw for thirty seconds on a sidewalk.
A woman who has no idea what I am.
After dinner, there's dancing. Svetlana expects us to participate, I know, and I lead her onto the floor because refusing would cause questions I don't want to answer. She fits perfectly in my arms, her body moving with mine smoothly, like we’ve done this before. We have—several times. Usually, I enjoy her closeness, the warmth of her slender, perfect body leaning into mine. I enjoy the scent of her floral perfume and the touchof her hands, a slow, teasing build to our eventual physical union.
Tonight, I feel as if I can hardly stand touching her, or for her to touch me.
"You're quiet tonight," she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
"Just thinking about business."
"Always business with you." She smiles, but there's something sharp in it. "You know, Ilya, there are other things in life."
"Are there?" I raise an eyebrow, my own tone sharpening. “Your father would disagree, I think. Business is, after all, the reason you’re here.”
She tenses, and I wonder again how much of this is real for her. She doesn’t seem to like the reminder that this is, at the end of the day, an arrangement. Neither of us is in love. I didn’t ask her out because of a singular desire for her. I met her at a gala like this one, and her father saw an opportunity.
Maybe that’s why Mara has lingered in my head. We met by chance. There was nothing orchestrating what happened this morning, only fate, if I were to believe in such a thing.
But there have been plenty of other women whom I’ve met by chance, and none of them have lingered in my mind for more than a night or two.
I look down at her, at this beautiful woman who would be a perfect partner in every way that matters in my world. She comes with connections and money. And she knows what I am. I doubt she understands the extent of the violence I’ve committed and would still commit, but that’s easy enough to keep from her, as I would any wife.
“Well, if you want to talk about business—” Her smile turns more practiced, more careful. “My father said?—”
"I'm not interested in discussing it tonight," I say flatly, cutting her off. “Regardless of what he said.”
Her smile freezes. "I see."
"Svetlana—"
"No, it's fine." She pulls back slightly, putting distance between us even as we continue to dance. "I understand. You clearly didn’t want to come here tonight anyway. But you had an obligation.”
The wordobligationis said with cold precision, and I can tell I’ve hurt her feelings. But I can hardly tell her that it’s not that I objected to coming to the gala tonight, though it’s hardly my preferred way to spend the evening. I can’t tell her that I'm distracted by a woman I don't know, that I saw briefly on a sidewalk this morning as I left a meeting and haven’t been able to get out of my head since.
So I say nothing else. I just keep dancing with her until the song ends, and she excuses herself to go to the restroom, her smile brittle and her eyes cold.
I know I should go and wait for her, try to smooth things over when she comes out. It's what I would normally do. What I should do.
Instead, I walk out onto the terrace, into the cool night air, and pull out my phone.
The photo of Mara is still there, blurry and somehow still entrancing. Desire throbs through me, and I’m once again struck by the urge to go and watch her, to peer through the windows of Elio Cattaneo’s brownstone and see her for myself, for longer.
Patience, I caution myself. If I truly want her, I can have her. There’s never been anything I’ve desired that I couldn’t take. But rushing things will only complicate them.
I put my phone back into my pocket and head downstairs, finding Svetlana shortly after. Her expression has turned carefully neutral, her demeanor frosty. We leave shortly after,and the car ride back to her apartment is silent and tense. As the car stops at her curb, she turns to me with a look I can't quite read.
And I know that, suddenly, when it comes to my personal life, what was firm ground this morning has become very thin ice.
