Page 16
As I blink at him, he laughs.
“And I believe you went into hypoglycemia from not eating for too long. Carbs and sugar for you.” He gestures to the cart. “Let’s eat together. Tell me what you’d like.”
After having my fill of the most delicious, carb-based foods with copious amounts of super sweet maple syrup and pats of ooey butter, I sigh, lean back in my chair with my hand resting on my belly.
Now that my body is fueled, the cylinders in my brain begin firing again. I regard Petrov with a slightly narrowed gaze.
He’s always been kind to me. I don’t have a logical reason for these suspicions welling up inside of me, and yet, they’re absolutely there. Instincts I don’t understand the source of. Not quite a sixth sense, but history has taught me if I don’t listen to my senses, bad things will happen.
Take the day I met Mama as the best example. Desperation made me follow her and ignore the alarm bells ringing in my mind.
But I don’t know what Petrov’s game is here. It makes no sense. A rich man like him wouldn’t have any reason to want more from me than a transactional relationship.
He laughs, shifting in his seat. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
My face heats at his question, but I force a laugh, my mouth running before my brain fully catches up. “I think you were trying to make me put on twenty pound so I won’t fit into any of the dresses later.”
Petrov’s laugh is heartier now, his head thrown back. “Never. I’ll already have the most beautiful woman at the ball on my arm, and I’m going to make sure she’s also the best dressed.”
Despite the heaviness in my chest, my smile is genuine. Petrov makes this all sound so… magical. Like I’m some undercover fairy tale princess and he’s the prince who’s going to introduce me to court. And I guess that’s partially true, isn’t it? Dresses and masquerade masks and lavish food and important people in the fanciest venue I’ve ever seen.
I’m no princess, though. But, really, what harm is there in pretending for one night?
“Darling, you will be the belle of the ball!”
Febrizio waves his delicate hands about my reflection in the full-length mirror in the bathroom, his smile broad and kind. When his hands gleefully clap in front of his body with a squeal, his gold bracelets jingle, the chunky rings on his fingers clink together. His pink-tipped white-blond hair falls into his eyes and he huffs before sweeping it away.
The woman in the mirror is me. What little makeup I have on is smudged from my earlier nap, my hair hastily smoothed by hand, blue streaks haphazard throughout my black locks. But while the fitted dress Petrov had given me to wear on the trip here had been a bit stiff but comfortable, what hugs my frame right now is soft and light. The black fabric sparkles when the light hits it just right. Straps on my shoulders, neckline plunging between my breasts and showing plenty of cleavage. The skirt is gathered just below my left hip with a decorative silver bauble, the rest of it flows down to just below my knees in the back. It moves freely with my body, leaving me completely unrestricted.
My head shakes as I breathe out. “This is stunning.”
“You are stunning. The dress is nothing without you.” Febrizio returns to his earlier pinning, getting the fabric to sit in all the places he wants it. “I’ll be here tomorrow to help you get ready, and do your makeup.” I don’t miss the frown that tugs on his lips when he mentions makeup, and I purse my lips at my raccoon eyes in the mirror.
“What about—?”
“Your hair, shoes, and accessories?” His manicured brow rises. “I’ve got you covered, boo.”
When Febrizio arrived at the hotel suite, Petrov introduced us and then left me in this Omega stylist’s hands to give me privacy. And I was grateful for how thoughtful he was being.
“I’ve never been to a masquerade ball before. Or any ball, for that matter.”
“Can you dance?”
I lift my right shoulder. “Enough.”
“You’ll be fine. Mr. Petrov comes to Manhattan pretty often and knows a lot of people. I’m sure he’ll introduce you around, dance with you a bit, and you can get drunk off your ass.”
I hum at him. “How long have you known Mr. Petrov?”
He purses his lips as he looks up, thinking. “Going on five years or so now. I filled in once for his tailor and he decided to make me a permanent fixture for his stays on this side of the country. Pays for my travel all along the coast.” He says the last part conspiratorially.
“I don’t blame him. You’re an artist, for sure.”
“I am, aren’t I?” He stands upright, head tilting before he nods at me. “Let me help you get this off without poking yourself with the pins.”
One shimmy-dance later, Febrizio has the dress in a fancy garment bag, and I’ve got on a pair of dark jeans and a purple sweater. The jeans are the softest pair I’ve ever touched, not to mention worn, and the sweater is even softer.
“Be sure to drink lots of water today and get lots of rest.” Febrizio in mother hen mode.
