Will I see Kirill tonight? Part of me hopes not. The other night was intense, too intense, and I’m not ready to face him again. Not when I’ve spent the last few days thinking about how completely he unraveled me.
Still, getting close to him is important. He’s a Baronov, after all.
The change room door is labeled “Staff Only” in simple gold lettering.
The space is nicer than I expected, with rows of metal lockers along two walls and a long counter with mirrors and salon-style lighting along the third. Another wall has a few benches and hooks for bags and coats. It’s clean and well-maintained, the smell of hairspray and perfume hanging in the air.
Locker thirty-three is open, with a small combination lock sitting on the shelf, the kind where I can set my own code. The uniform, a dress identical to Oksana’s, hangs inside. I’m not sure it’ll look half as elegant on me, but at least the fabric is soft and appears forgiving.
I strip out of my jeans and T-shirt, folding them carefully before placing them in the locker along with my jacket. I slide the black dress on, then turn toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall beside the vanity.
Not bad.
It has thin crisscross straps showing off my shoulders and the upper portion of my tattoo sleeve, including my newest addition. A peony and vine design that winds down my right arm. Peonies were my mother’s favorite flowers, the ones she kept in a vase on our kitchen table in summer. I had it done afterthe dreams started, and the memories surfaced. A permanent reminder of what I’m fighting for.
The neckline dips lower than I expected, showing the curve of my collarbones and a hint of cleavage. The dress is definitely sexy on me. I’m built like my mother. Tall, with full breasts and hips that would have been fashionable seventy years ago. Not that I give a shit. I like my body as it is.
There’s a package of sheer black stockings on the shelf. I sit on one of the benches and roll them on carefully, smoothing them up my legs.
After swapping my combat boots for heels, I settle down in front of the big vanity. I start by applying eyeliner, blush, and a swipe of a deep berry lipstick that complements my skin tone and makes my lips stand out. The woman looking back at me wants attention, which is funny considering I’ve spent most of my life avoiding it.
I’m applying a final coat of mascara when the door swings open and female voices pour in.
“I’m telling you, she has to be something special. Kirill doesn’t even look at the staff usually, let alone…” The speaker, a pretty blonde in an identical black dress, stops mid-sentence when she sees me. Her eyes widen. “Oh. You’re her.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror, wand still in hand. “That depends on who you think I am.”
Two more women file in behind her. One is petite with dramatic kohl-lined eyes and a pouty mouth. The other looks like she walked off a catwalk, all flowing red hair and endless legs.
All three study me like I’m a specimen under glass.
The blonde moves to the vanity, pulling out a makeup bag. “You’re the new girl, right? Evelina?”
Jesus. Word travels fast.
“Yep. This is my first shift.” I cap the mascara, turning toward them.
“I’m Klara,” the petite one says, hopping up to sit on the counter near me. “That green-eyed monster over there is Rada, and that’s Yeva. She’s a dancer here.”
She points to the taller woman who moves to a locker at the far end and starts changing out of her clothes with zero self-consciousness. Tank top over her head, jeans sliding down those long legs. Maybe it comes with the territory of being a stripper or maybe she knows her body is a work of art and is happy for the admiration.
Either way, good for her.
“I’m not jealous,” Rada spits, like being jealous of me would be the ultimate insult. “I just want to know what you did to get hired by Kirill Baronov.”
If she only knew. “I don’t know. Guess you’ll have to ask him.”
“Don’t mind her.” Klara leans against the counter, applying a wine-red lipstick in the mirror. “She was hoping for a marriage proposal from one of the brothers.”
Yeva slips into a silk robe, tying it loosely at the waist, and joins the conversation. “Oh, come on. Every girl who works here is trying to land a Baronov. They’re like the holy grail of eligible bachelors. Rich, hot, and apparently they fuck like gods.” She shrugs, unbothered. “I certainly wouldn’t say no.”
A sharp pang of something uncomfortably close to jealousy hooks under my ribs and pulls tight.
Rada huffs out a breath and examines her nails like they’re suddenly fascinating. “I was making progress with Kirill. We had a vibe last time I served his table. I could tell he was close to asking me out.”
“Really?” Klara tips her head. “I heard he doesn’t mess around with staff.”
“He also doesn’t hold auditions or get involved in the day-to-day of Velour.” Yeva smirks, adjusting her robe. “But he made an exception for you.”
