14. Lacey
14
LACEY
I lean back against the headboard, ankle propped up on a pillow with an ice pack. The crutches Lenka brought lean against the nightstand, but that's not what I'm focused on.
My heart still races from what happened just now.
What almost happened.
Thank God Lenka interrupted us. Another minute and I don't know what would've happened.
No… I think. I know exactly what would've happened.
His thumb had traced my lip, parting it with ease. His palm moved against my face, slowly shifting towards the back of my head as if to control the pace.
And I had reached up to pull him down by his tie down towards me.
I was about to kiss him.
Kiss? That tiny little voice pipes up in my head. You were about to do so much more than kiss.
The thought sends a fresh wave of heat up my face.
I should be outraged that he went through my phone and jerked himself off to my pictures. But instead, I feel something else—something I definitely shouldn't be feeling about him:
Desire.
Slowly, I part my thighs as my fingers start trailing down my legs.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes—a calendar reminder for my hair appointment before my cancelled wedding—and snaps me out of my moment of madness.
I clamp my legs shut, mortified at what I was about to do. Heat floods my cheeks as reality crashes back in.
What am I thinking? I can't let him get to me like this.
I grab my phone and start scrolling back through the texts that he exchanged with Megan.
Each one is exactly as he said: the technical truth of everything that's happened since our paths crossed at the Vorobyov event.
Vadim hadn't been lying.
And with a start, I realize that he truly has only ever been truthful with me. It's a refreshing change, that's for sure.
But just then, a new worry creeps in. If Vadim hacked my phone, what else does he know about me? He already knows about Megan.
Does he also know about Dad?
My heart pounds as I set the phone aside and glance back at the camera. He already knows about them. There's no way he wouldn't. And if he's serious about who and what he is, then they'll be safe as long as I play my part in his game.
A strange calmness washes over me.
I may be playing his game. But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for him.
Rising carefully from the bed, I test my weight on my injured ankle. The ice pack is helping. It's tender but manageable. I grab the crutches and make my way to the door.
You want me to play? Fine. Let's play.
In the hallway, I spot Lenka directing a maid. "Excuse me," I call out. "Do you have an alteration kit I could borrow?"
She turns, eyebrows raised. "An alteration kit?"
"Yes. Those dresses in my closet are beautiful, but they don't quite fit. I'd like to adjust them."
"We can have someone do that for you," Lenka says, studying my face.
I shake my head. "I prefer to do it myself. I have experience." When she doesn't move, I add, "Please. I need something to keep my hands busy."
Understanding flickers across her weathered features. She nods to the maid, who hurries off and returns moments later with a wicker sewing basket.
"Thank you," I say, taking it from her. The familiar weight of scissors and thread brings an odd comfort. At least this is something I still have control over.
Lenka watches me carefully. "You know what you're doing?"
"Trust me," I say with a small smile. "Fashion design was my major before..." I trail off, not wanting to explain about Mom's illness. "Let's just say I know my way around a needle and thread."
Back in my room, I head straight for the closet. My fingers trail over the luxurious fabrics until I find it—the midnight blue dress that first caught my eye. The silk charmeuse flows like water through my hands as I hold it against myself in front of the mirror.
I start placing pins along the bodice where it needs taking in. The bust needs adjustment, and the waist could be more fitted. The hem should sit just above my knee instead of mid-calf.
As I work, everything else fades away. No more thoughts about Vadim. No more worrying about forced marriages or bratvas. Just fabric and pins and the quiet satisfaction of making something beautiful fit perfectly.
My hands remember every movement, every technique I learned in school. It's like muscle memory. Knowing exactly where to place each pin, how much fabric to take in, and which seams to adjust.
Without realizing it, I start humming "Moon River." Mom and I used to hum it together when I was little. She'd sit with me for hours, helping me make patterns and offering suggestions. The melody flows naturally as my fingers work, and for a moment I can almost hear her voice harmonizing with mine.
A peace settles over me that I haven't felt in years. This is what I was meant to do. Not catering, not pretending to be a bratva boss's wife: but creating something beautiful.
Something mine.
Holding the dress up one more time and satisfied with my plans, I take a pair of scissors to it and start to cut.
Hours later, I set down my needle with a satisfied sigh. My fingers trace the careful pleating I added at the waist of the midnight blue dress—a detail that wasn't there before but adds just the right touch of sophistication. The bodice still needs work though. I've pinned it differently three times, but haven't quite achieved the perfect fit for myself yet.
A knock at the door interrupts my concentration, and I look up in surprise to see that night has fallen.
"Come in," I call out, as I adjust another pin.
"Ms. McKinney, Vadim Petrovich is requesting your presence for dinner this evening."
"I'm in the middle of something." My head snaps up. "I'd prefer to eat here, if it's all the same."
"It is not," Lenka says firmly. "Nor is it negotiable."
"I'm busy," I gesture at the dress. "Besides, I'm hardly dressed for a formal dinner." I'm still wearing the clothes I arrived in, now wrinkled from sitting cross-legged on the floor while sewing. "And I'm not done with my alterations."
"That is why I brought these." Lenka opens a garment bag to reveal a deep emerald cocktail dress and matching heels. "Vadim Petrovich insists on your company."
My jaw clenches. Of course he does. He's probably been watching me work all day through that damn camera, planning this moment when he can finally see me change.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I will be forced to help you dress." Lenka's tone makes it clear she'd rather not resort to that.
I glance between the emerald dress and my half-finished alterations. The midnight blue silk seems to mock me now—a reminder that everything beautiful in this place comes with strings attached.
“Alright,” I say, setting down my pins. "Give me fifteen minutes."
I look at Lenka, but she makes no move to leave.
Fine.
Turning my back to Lenka, I slip out of my clothes. My blouse pools at my feet, and is soon joined by my pants. I run my fingers along the seams of the emerald dress, examining the construction. No manufacturer's tag, just a simple "Svoboda" label. The stitching is immaculate, the kind of detailed work that only comes from custom tailoring.
Taking a deep breath, I step into it. The silk slides against my skin, cool as rain, and settles perfectly around my curves. No pinching, no awkward bunching—it fits like it was made for me.
Did he have this made for me? When?
The matching heels gleam temptingly, but I leave them in their box. My ankle throbs at the mere thought of trying to walk in them. Besides, I need something to show him that he can't just control everything that I do.
I need something that reminds both him and myself that I'm still me.
So, opting to keep my flats on, I smooth down the dress and grab my crutches.
"I'm ready," I tell Lenka.
I expect her to object—surely Vadim specified that I wear the complete outfit. But she simply nods and with a mysterious smile, moves to open the door.
"Follow me, Ms. McKinney."
As we make our way down the ornate hallway, my crutches clicking against marble floors, curiosity gets the better of me.
"How long have you worked here, Lenka?"
"Decades. Long before Vadim Petrovich was born, when his father Pyotr ruled Pankration."
I catch the slight edge in her voice at Pyotr's name—the same tension I noticed in Vadim earlier. "What was he like? Pyotr, I mean."
"This place was a den of debauchery under the best circumstances." A shadow darkens Lenka's weathered features. "And a palace of pain and grief during the worst. Under Vadim Petrovich, it's taken on a shred of respectability that it never saw during Pyotr's time."
I can't help notice that she refuses to talk about Pyotr the person, but the effect he had on this place.
There has to be a story there…
"Is Vadim..." I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "Is he anything like his father?"
"No." The answer comes quickly, definitively. "But he fears becoming like Pyotr. The very idea haunts him."
"Why?"
Lenka's steps slow. "That is not my story to tell. Only Vadim Petrovich can share those truths with you."
A wild thought suddenly strikes me as we arrive near a pair of doors and Lenka reaches out to open them.
"Lenka, are you... are you his mother?"
She stops completely and turns to face me.
"No, devushka . But I knew her when she was here." The mask of indifference finally cracks, and pain flashes across her face. "Of all the sad and cruel stories these walls bear witness to, hers was the saddest and cruelest of them all. Please, for the sake of both yourself and Vadim Petrovich, don't ask him to repeat it."