Page 89 of The Bratva Sinner

And then, it dawns on me.

He bought me a dress for the party. We had talked about the fact that I didn’t have a black-tie-worthy dress. I didn’t even know what that meant until he explained. I had offered to stay upstairs. I don’t know how to mingle with rich people.

In the back of my mind, I was a little nervous. Maksim promised me that it was safe. Security would be tight. No one would get through unless he personally approved them.

That part I believed, but the part I couldn’t get my head around was me. I don’t know how to schmooze and be elegant.

I get out of his bed to inspect the dress. It’s got thin straps and a low back. It’s very delicate. Very not me.

I’m suddenly very aware of myself. I walk into his massive bathroom and stare at my reflection. He picked a dress for mebecause I couldn’t be trusted to pick the right one for myself. Is that what he wants me to look like? Dress like? Is he making me into one of his girls?

I feel self-conscious. Small. Unworthy.

It hurts.

I spend most of the day checking on the horses and staying out of the way. Caterers and security are everywhere. They put up a tent in the backyard, along with more tables and chairs. I feel the energy in the air. Maksim was gone when I woke up, and he hasn’t returned. I really wanted to discuss the dress with him.

Instead, I go through the motions. At least, I try, with the help of YouTube. I’ve never done the glamour thing. My makeup has always been basic. My hairstyle is the quickest ponytail I can pull together without worrying about middle parts and flyaways.

It’s both strange and exciting to get dolled up.

An hour later, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in the guest room.

I don’t recognize myself. My hair is down, which it rarely is. I’m wearing the heels that were left in a box beside the dress. Sparkling silver with a thin strap around the ankle. They’re not as impossible as they look. I’ve had worse footing on uneven ground in the dark.

I look at the woman looking back at me.Woman.Not a cowgirl with dirty jeans and messy hair. An honest-to-God woman.

I tug at the hem that hits mid-thigh. My legs are strong and tan from working outside, and nothing about them looks delicate. I’ve got a scrape on my left knee from the parking garage, but it’s barely visible. The road rash on my arm has faded to pink.

I look like a beautiful disaster.

By the time I arrive downstairs, I barely recognize the backyard. String lights are laced through every tree along the back terrace. The pool glows a brilliant blue. Round tables with white linens cover the lawn. Catering staff in uniform move around, carrying trays. Bartenders in black stand behind a long, temporary bar near the far garden wall. Flowers are everywhere, white and cream and pale green. Music pumps through speakers I can’t see.

It looks like a magazine spread. It’s a world I’ve only seen in the movies.

Men in suits huddle in groups. They’re all so confident. I feel the wealth oozing around the space. Beautiful women circulate among the crowd. I don’t think they’re guests who’ll be investing in Maksim’s new club.

They’re dressed to impress, and they know how to move through a room and make a man feel like the most important person in it. They’re professionals.

I take a glass of champagne from a passing tray just to have something to do with my hand.

Then, I see Maksim.

He’s across the terrace near the main bar, deep in conversation with two men. He’s in a dark suit, with a black shirt and black tie. His hair is pushed back, and his jaw is clean-shaven for once. He looks like money. He looks like the kind of man who is very comfortable at parties like this.

He’s laughing at something one of the men said. Not his real laugh. I know his real laugh. He touches the taller man on the shoulder, and the man beams as if he’s been knighted.

I watch him work the room.

He moves from one group to the next with that slightly disheveled charm that makes him seem so approachable. Friendly. I’ve seen the darker side.

A woman in a red dress laughs too loudly at something he says. I watch as she puts her hand on his arm and leans in. He tilts his head toward her and smiles like she’s the only person he’s interested in.

I take a long sip of champagne.

I almost choke. I’ve never had real champagne. I had some on New Year’s once, but it was from the gas station; cheap and way too sweet. This stuff isn’t bad, but it's bubbly, and it goes straight up my nose and down my throat at the same time.

I’m not the kind of woman who falls apart because her husband is charming at a party. I knew what he was before I asked him to have sex with me. I know our marriage isn’t real.