Beautiful Cruelty (Stravinsky Bratva #1)

1. Lacey

1

LACEY

"Come on!" I groan in frustration, but the engagement ring refuses to budge, a perfectly circular reminder of my imperfect life.

I guess that’s what happens when you catch your fiancé balls-deep in his secretary three days before your wedding.

Giving up on the ring for now, I pull into the parking lot at Mrs. Klossner's dry-cleaners, kill the engine, and stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My mascara's held up better than expected, even though I haven't been able to stop crying after catching my fiancé Nathan fucking his secretary Caroline on his desk last night.

Small victories.

Don't cry. I tell myself. Just open the door. Walk in, say hi to Mrs. Klossner, grab your dry cleaning, and get out.

I take a deep breath and push open the car door. The humidity hits me like a wall, making my cotton blouse stick to my skin, and I wobble for a second.

"Get it together, Lacey," I mutter, snatching my purse from the passenger seat. The leather strap has seen better days, just like everything else in my life right now.

The familiar whir of the automated rack greets me as I—eyes still fixed on my own shoes—push through the door. Hangers click along their metal track like a demented wind chime. The whole place smells like fabric softener and steam.

The smell usually comforts me, but today it just reminds me of pressing Nathan's shirts while he was working late.

Allegedly working late, I remind myself.

"I'm surprised to see you today. You usually send someone else to pick up your orders," Mrs. Klossner says to someone at the counter. "There was a piece of paper in your pocket. I saved it for you."

"That piece of paper is very important for the event I'll be attending." The voice draws me up short. It's deep and powerful, the kind that suggests old money and older connections.

"And what event is that?"

"The Vorobyov memorial retrospective. Unfortunately, it's not something that I'm allowed to miss."

At the mention of the event, I look up and my breath immediately catches in my throat.

The man at the counter towers over Mrs. Klossner's tiny frame. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his tailored suit, and blond hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. When he glances down to check his watch, the movement draws my attention to his sharp jawline and the rigid lines of his neck disappearing into his crisp collar.

My left hand falls to my side, the stubborn engagement ring I've been trying to wrench off now temporarily forgotten.

"Oh!" The sound escapes my lips before I can stop myself.

He turns and looks at me. The deliberate movement is fluid and graceful. Dark gray eyes—like storm clouds—meet mine as I gawk at him like an idiot.

With his attention turned towards me, his presence is even more overwhelming. He shifts slightly, and a light and spicy scent wafts to my nose, practically commanding me to lean in closer.

"I'll be at the Vorobyov event too!" I blurt out, and immediately want to crawl under the counter and die.

Real smooth, Lacey.

His gaze pierces right through me as he looks at me. Suddenly I'm focused on a small coffee stain on the fabric of my blouse. I can feel his eyes looking at my sensible black slacks and scuffed flats, before they travel back up towards my face with the kind of slow appreciation that makes my skin tingle.

Not uncomfortable, exactly.

Just... aware.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he points at my flats. "Those are custom-made, aren't they?"

"They are!" The words come out before I can stop myself. "Patent leather ballet flats with a memory foam insole.”

“And the vamp?” he asks. “Hand-stitched?”

“Yep!” My cheeks flush at his unexpected praise.

No one's ever noticed these technical details before, let alone commented on them with such precision. Even Nathan dismissed my shoe designs as a "cute hobby." He preferred that I focus on dresses while he promised to get me the starting capital to open my own store.

So much for those promises, I think bitterly.

He nods. "Are they an engagement gift from your fiancé?"

Huh?

Oh right! Ugh! That stupid ring.

"Made them myself, actually. And it's ex-fiancé," I correct him on both counts, fighting the urge to twist at the stubborn band of metal again. "The ring seems more committed to the relationship than he was."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was it recent?"

"About eleven hours and..." I glance at the clock behind him, "twenty-three minutes ago. But who's counting?"

"Not you."

"Not me."

His lips curve into the shadow of a smile that transforms his stern features, sparking something dangerous and thrilling in those storm-gray eyes.

"Before you ask." I hold my hand up to stop him from speaking. "It was his secretary."

"I wasn’t about to." He pauses, those storm-cloud eyes studying my face. "But I was about to suggest that olive oil helps with stuck rings."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Let's just say I've had practice helping people out of... complicated situations. Speaking of which." Casually, he looks at Mrs. Klossner as she lays my dry cleaning down on the counter next to his. "Have you considered my offer for this place, Mrs. Klossner?"

Those words slam into me like a punch to the gut.

Wait, what?

"You can't sell, Mrs. K!" I protest before I can stop myself.

Both of them turn to look at me. I know I’m speaking out of place, but I can’t back down now.

Mrs. Klossner’s dry cleaner has always been a refuge for me. After I’d been forced to drop out of Seattle Pacific University to help save money for Mom’s chemotherapy treatments, Mrs. Klossner was more than happy to give me discarded materials so that I can still practice designing dresses and shoes. She’d offer me the use of her sewing machines, and would stay with me deep into the night to talk about anything, everything, and nothing.

When Mom lost her battle with cancer three years ago, Mrs. Klossner’s dry cleaner became almost a second home for me, and she a second Mom.

With my own upcoming marriage now circling the toilet bowl, I can’t bear the possibility of losing this place—and by extension—her as well.

I’ve already lost so much in the last three years.

"The price is fair." The man starts explaining before Mrs. Klossner can. "The store will offer more?—"

"Services? Enhanced value? Let me guess, 'synergy'?" I cut him off. "Save the MBA buzzwords. I've heard them all before."

"You seem to have a lot of opinions about business deals you're not involved in."

Whatever feelings I might’ve felt towards him earlier now disappear in an instant. I reach over the counter and snatch my dry cleaning, not caring that I'm probably wrinkling the hell out of it.

"This place has been here for three decades!" I gesture around the shop. "It's not just a number on a spreadsheet!"

"No," he agrees, surprising me. "It's a business that's been operating at a loss for the past eight years, with outdated equipment and rising maintenance costs. Mrs. Klossner deserves to retire without worrying about bankruptcy."

"And I suppose you're just here to help? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I'm here because I see potential." His eyes lock onto mine. "In a lot of things."

"Does that line usually work for you?" I whisper as heat creeps up my neck.

"I don't know. Does pretending to hate me usually work for you?"

"Who says I'm pretending?"

"The fact that you're still talking to me." He pushes off the counter, stepping closer. "Most people who actually hate me can't wait to get away."

His scent teases at my nose, stronger than before, and I fight the urge to lean forward.

"Maybe I just enjoy arguing."

"Or maybe." His smile widens. "You just enjoy me."

I snort, but it comes out less dismissive than I'd like. "Wow. Your ego must be even bigger than your portfolio."

"And just how certain are you of my portfolio size?"

"From the bespoke suit, to that understated but expensive watch, to the way you walk around acting like you own the world." I pause for a moment. "I know what you are."

"And what am I?"

"An enemy."

I don't know why I chose those words. Maybe it's to hide the quiver in my voice now that he's so close to me. Maybe it's because of the blood rushing at my ears. Maybe it’s because he's the only outlet that I can focus all of my heartbreak and frustration at.

Or maybe…

No! Don't be ridiculous. I fight back the involuntary shudder, but the way his storm-gray eyes seem to glint tells me that he's missed nothing.

"Is that what you think we are, zvyozdochka ?" He's definitely in my space now, and his heady scent is doing terrible, wicked things to my imagination. Like his suit, it must be bespoke. "Enemies?"

"We're nothing." I take a step back, bumping into the rack behind me. "And we're going to stay nothing. Don’t pretend like you know anything about me.”

"I know you desperately want the world to acknowledge you for the talent that you clearly have." He nods toward my feet. "I know you've been crying from the way your mascara is slightly smudged at the corner of your eye. I know you're a fighter because instead of drinking wine and deleting photos like a normal person, you're standing right here, right now, fighting for a dry cleaner—" He checks his watch again. "—Eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes after your engagement ended. But who's counting?"

I jut my chin out at him. "Not me."

"Not you." He smiles, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a business card, offering it to me. "In case you want to continue not counting at Vorobyov's."

Everything about it screams money and power. From the thick cardstock, the embossed lettering, and even to the way he holds it out—like he's used to people scrambling to take things from him.

I should walk away.

I should focus on putting my life back together, not getting tangled up with a dangerously handsome stranger. A stranger that I have no right feeling anything for other than contempt for trying to buy out Mrs. Klossner’s dry cleaner.

Whatever I should be doing, it’s not taking that damn card.

But somehow, my hand reaches out, and I take it. His smile curves up ever so slightly, and both of us know that he just won.

"I'll see you there, zvyozdochka, " he says as he grabs his dry cleaning off the counter. "One more thing."

"What?" I do my best to put some bite into my voice.

"Try coconut oil instead of olive. Works better on platinum."

He's gone before I can ask how he knew my ring was platinum.

I look down at the business card: heavy stock, letterpress printing, with his name, title, and number in clean typography:

Vadim Stravinsky, CEO: Svoboda Inc.

Understated but expensive, just like everything else about him.

"He's not what you think, Lacey," Mrs. Klossner says quietly.

"He's exactly what I think." I want to crumple the card up and throw it away. Instead, I stuff it into my purse. "A businessman who sees dollar signs instead of people."

"A businessman who's offering me enough to retire comfortably, and keep all my employees on staff with better benefits." She gives me a knowing look. "Sometimes things aren't so simple. People neither."

"Everything’s pretty simple to me right now, Mrs. K." I hoist my dry cleaning over my shoulder. "Rich guy buys up small businesses. Girl catches fiancé cheating. Ring won't come off. Tale as old as time."

"What about a handsome stranger offering some perspective and his phone number?"

"That's not—" I blow out a frustrated breath. "He's not—I'll see you next week, Mrs. K."

"Mhmm." She smiles that infuriatingly knowing smile. "Oh, and Lacey? Don't bother with any kind of oil. Use hand sanitizer. The alcohol breaks the surface tension. Ring should slide right off."

I pause at the door, looking back at her. "You couldn't have mentioned that ten minutes ago?"

"And miss all that quality entertainment? Please." She waves me off. "Go home. Put some ice on those feelings you're definitely not having, and I'll see you next week."

"I'm not having any feelings!"

"Of course not, dear. That's why you're blushing."

I push through the door, the bell's cheerful chime now sounding smug, and the business card burns a hole in my purse all the way to my car.

I definitely don't Google Vadim Stravinsky as soon as I slam the door shut. I definitely don't spend twenty minutes scrolling through one article after another about his acquisitions and investments. And I absolutely don't smile when I see he's quoted in Forbes talking about the importance of preserving craftsmanship in small businesses.

The ring slides off easily with a drop of hand sanitizer, and I plop it down soundlessly in my palm before throwing it in my purse.

Small victories.

I thought I’d feel relieved, but instead I've become hyper-aware of how naked and empty my finger feels.

I turn and see the ring resting against Vadim's business card. My hand hovers over it, hesitating even though I know what I'm about to do.

Ugh!

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to start drinking wine and deleting pictures. I need to do something—anything—except think about adding Vadim's number to my contacts.

I pick up my phone, then put it down. Pick it up again. God, I'm pathetic.

No... I decide. I can't. I won't.

But I do it anyway, my fingers trembling slightly as I type. The rational part of my brain screams that this is crazy. That I'm not ready, that I'm still raw, and that I'm probably just desperate to prove I'm still desirable after Nathan's betrayal.

The less rational part remembers how Vadim's eyes lit up when he noticed the details of my shoes. How he didn't offer empty platitudes about Nathan. How for a few minutes, arguing with him made me forget about the hole in my chest.

I'm here because I see potential. In a lot of things.

My phone suddenly buzzes, and for a moment, I dare to imagine it’s Vadim. No words can describe the hurt and disappointment when I see that it’s from the florist: asking me as delicately as a text can to confirm that Nathan really did just contact them to cancel the order for this Saturday.

Before I can respond, another text flows in. This time it’s from the venue, and their tone is much less delicate.

When the bridal boutique’s text arrives, asking if I’m okay and if I’d like to refund my dress, that’s when I lose what little composure I have.

Loud, choking sobs punch out from my throat as if they’re being ripped out from the pits of my stomach. Reality closes in on me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bang my hands against the steering wheel as I continue to ugly-cry.

But for the first time since last night, I don’t see Nathan fucking Caroline on his desk.

Instead, I see a pair of storm-gray eyes and an enigmatic smile. Broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his tailored suit. And blond hair falling across his forehead in a way that beckons my fingers to brush it out of the way.

Maybe it's the way he noticed the details of my shoes. Maybe it's how he didn't offer me any empty sympathy about Nathan.

Or maybe I'm just desperate to feel something other than heartbreak.

Another text comes in, this time from the photographer jolting me out of my crying fit to inform me that he’s not refunding our down payment.

But I don’t care about that right now.

All I find myself doing is staring at Vadim’s newly-created profile in my phone as one text after another continues to pour in, requesting confirmations and updates that my wedding really is over before it even got started.

My finger hovers over the call button.

No… I decide. I can't.

I won’t.

But I'm a goddamn liar if I say I don’t want to hear that voice again, even if it's the last thing I should be doing right now.

Especially because it's the last thing I should be doing right now.