I turned and shot the culprit beside me a vicious glare. Nikolai stood there, hand propped under his chin, his usually cruel face showing a rare, exasperated, defeated expression.
"Guess your etiquette lessons really do need to start with the basics—like 'closing doors,' hotshot writer." He curled his lip, dropped that line, and disappeared into his bathroom.
Half an hour later, that delicious Russian breakfast couldn't save my tragic fate. Because when Sophia led me into the sunlit conservatory at nine sharp, I finally met Washington's most terrifying nightmare.
My etiquette instructor, Mrs. Gable.
The retired diplomatic protocol officer wore a severely tailored gray designer suit, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She held a delicate brass teaching pointer, looking at me with zero warmth, like a cold judge sizing up a prisoner about to be sentenced.
"Ms. Cole." Mrs. Gable's tone could even be called gentle, with that upper-class refinement—a velvet knife. "Mr. Volkov has given me only three days. So I must skip the gentle theory and move straight to practice. In this room, you will obey my every command absolutely. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am." I stood tensely in the center of the room.
"Then let's begin with the simplest task—a lady's entrance. Please sit in that chair."
I took a deep breath, trying to make my curvy body look less cumbersome, and moved toward that carved wooden chair with what I hoped was grace.
The pointer slammed against the marble floor with a piercing snap.
"Wrong, Ms. Cole." Mrs. Gable's voice remained gentle, but herwords were ice-cold. "The moment you sat down, your back tilted three degrees from the chair. At a diplomatic dinner, that announces to your host that you lack basic upbringing. A lady's spine never touches the backrest—maintain exactly one inch of distance. Do it again. Twenty times."
"Twenty?" I stared in disbelief.
"Since you questioned my teaching method, make it forty. Begin." Mrs. Gable looked at me expressionlessly.
Screw diplomatic protocol! I cursed Nikolai a thousand times in my head, but under the Pakhan's intimidation, I could only grit my teeth, straighten my spine, and mechanically stand, sit, stand, sit on that damn chair.
My thigh muscles started burning fast.
"Stop!" The pointer struck again. "When rising, a lady's knees must remain together, ankles uncrossed. Your posture just now resembled a hungover woman waiting for cheap takeout at a bar. Again. Thirty in a row."
The entire morning was absolute physical torture.
Mrs. Gable was the most sadistic perfectionist I'd ever met. With that sugar-sweet voice, she dissected and punished every tiny movement. Wrong finger angle holding a champagne flute? Do it over ten times! Silk skirt swaying more than two inches climbing stairs? Ten more times! Eye contact during a handshake half a second too short? Sorry, another ten!
Worse, because of my fuller figure, movements that looked effortless on size-zero models required every ounce of my core strength to control. My spine, my abs, my thighs—after hundreds of repetitions, they'd lost all feeling.
Finally, at noon, Mrs. Gable elegantly tucked away her brass pointer and gave me a thoroughly fake smile. "Dance class begins promptly at two p.m., Ms. Cole. I hope your ligaments are as tough as your lips."
I collapsed in the chair, too exhausted even to roll my eyes.
But the afternoon's ballroom dancing lesson was what truly showed mehell on earth.
At two sharp, the Persian rugs in the conservatory were rolled away, revealing mirror-polished hardwood. My dance instructor, Patrick, glided in. He wore a tailcoat, exuding the refined air of an antique English aristocrat.
"Ms. Cole, per Mr. Volkov's strict requirements and propriety, I will not touch you at all during instruction." Patrick's voice was exceptionally smooth, but his long, elegant fingers held a slender black... wand?
More precisely, a specialized wooden conductor's baton used to correct orchestra posture.
That little thing became my unshakable nightmare for the next four hours.
"The essence of the Viennese waltz is rotational balance, Ms. Cole. One, two, three, turn—"
Patrick glided around me with elegant footwork. I lifted my heavy practice skirt, wobbling in three-inch dance shoes, spinning dizzily on the polished floor.
That slender stick suddenly struck my right ankle—light but precise.
"Ow!" I yelped, my steps immediately faltering.
