She typed back: I’m going to kill you.
Ilay: That’s not a thank you.
Iris: Thank you, you absolute lunatic. I love you.
Ilay: I love you too. Times a million.
She shook her head and looked around at the chaos, and even though she would probably get a stern talking-to from building management, she couldn’t stop smiling.
Anton appeared in her doorway with a sour expression on his face.
“The entire floor smells like a funeral home,” he said.
Iris picked up a rose and tucked it behind her ear.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.
Anton walked away without another word.
CHAPTER 6
ILAY
The sun is bright and the sky is a perfect cloudless blue, the kind of day that feels like it was made for something special. February in Moscow can be brutal but today the cold has softened into something almost pleasant. Couples walk hand in hand on every street. Florists sell roses on every corner. I have been planning this day for six days straight with the help of a three-year-old who has very strong opinions about flowers.
I check my watch. The hands show 4:07 PM.
My wife is late.
The red carpet is rolled up in the back of the van waiting to be unfurled. The musicians are sitting in a separate car with their instruments ready. The pilot I hired for the skywriting is circling somewhere overhead waiting for my signal. Everything is in place except for the one person who is supposed to be here.
I pull out my phone and dial her number. She picks up on the second ring.
"Baby, I'm so sorry, I know I said 4 but this client is—"
"Iris."
"I just need fifteen more minutes, I swear, I'm almost done with this paperwork and then—"
"Iris."
"Please don't be mad, I know it's Valentine's Day but this is really important and I promise I'll make it up to you—"
"I'm coming to get you."
Silence on the other end.
"What do you mean you're coming to get me?"
"I mean exactly what I said."
"Ilay, you can't just—"
I hang up and step out of the car, buttoning my suit jacket as I walk toward the building entrance. The glass doors slide open. I walk through the lobby toward the elevators, ignoring the few people who turn to look at me. I press the button for the fourth floor and wait as the elevator climbs. When the doors open I step out onto the floor that has been drowning in my flowers for the past week.
The receptionist looks up with her mouth opening like she wants to say something, but I walk past her before she gets the chance.
The hallway stretches ahead of me. I can see people at their desks pretending not to stare as I pass, whispering to each other behind their hands. Her office is at the end of the hall with the door half open. Through the gap I can see her hunched over her desk with papers spread out in front of her, a pen in her hand. Her red hair is falling out of its clip. There are dark circles under her eyes that I don't like.
