9. Mikhail
Chapter nine
Mikhail
Tatiana is looking gorgeous in her champagne-colored dress.
The arrogant fucker pulling her chair out for her doesn’t deserve her.
Okay, he might be a perfectly nice guy. I’ve never actually met him.
Roman and I are sitting at a table diagonal from them, so he can provide her coverage and I can judge the man and give her my feedback later.
I know I should give him the benefit of the doubt, in case he really is good for her, but the sad, jealous part of me just can’t.
No one will ever be good enough for her.
Especially not me.
She smiles at him politely and, fuck, she never smiles at me like that. Like there’s a possibility or hope there. It guts me. But I’m used to this pain. That’s the price I have to pay, being in love with my best friend.
Her posture is perfect; her hands folded delicately in her lap.
Her mother had her in etiquette classes almost before she could walk.
“In our world, a woman’s reputation is not hers alone.
It belongs to her father before marriage and her husband after.
Every dress you wear, every room you enter, every mistake reflects on the men responsible for you,” her mother would say.
Right now, she is Tatiana, Dimitri Chernov’s daughter. All elegance and perfection.
Maxim is the son of a private equity tycoon. Someone who buys companies, sells off the valuable parts of them, and shuts the rest of it down before the employees realize they’ve just received their last paycheck.
I’m sure Irina saw nothing wrong with that.
They make polite small talk at first. They’re close enough I’m sure Roman can hear them, but my cochlear doesn’t work well in a crowded room with a lot of noise.
But I can read their lips.
When the server comes back to their table, though, Tatiana opens her mouth to order before shutting it again and plastering her polite smile back on. The motherfucker’s ordering for her.
I smile.
Strike number one.
Tatiana might be polite and upper-class and perfect, but she knows her own mind and won’t stand for a man who thinks he knows better. Especially on a first date, when he couldn’t possibly know what she likes to eat.
I bet he watches those bro-dude, alpha-male podcasts and thinks he’s showing her his masculinity. This should be fun.
Tati doesn’t need to be “owned” or “submissive”. She needs someone who will support and protect her while she flourishes. Because once she feels supported, there’s nothing she won’t be able to accomplish.
“Oh, that’s interesting...” she says, and her smile morphs into what I call her professional smile. It’s the one she wears to galas, and charity events, and family dinners. It looks genuine to everyone who doesn’t know her. I should not be as happy as I am that it seems like this isn’t going well.
Suddenly, Tati’s polite smile vanishes, and her cheeks turn a porcelain-doll shade of pink. Roman’s spine stiffens, and his calculated gaze turns stormy.
“Oh... uh... I don’t think... I don’t think that’s a topic for polite dinner company...” she says. What the fuck could he have asked her?
I put my hand on Roman’s sleeve to get his attention and sign: What did he say?
Luckily, Roman learned ASL when he first took the job, since Tati and I sign to each other so much. He hated not knowing what we were saying and started online tutoring.
He said that he was a high-value man and asked her her body count.
Body count?
How many men she’s slept with.
I couldn’t stop my laughter if I tried. Oh my God, that’s funny. I didn’t think people actually asked that. Especially three minutes into a first date.
Tati’s eyes find mine, and her shock morphs back into a smile. Then, her smile turns a little wicked. A lot of people underestimate Tati’s intelligence and cleverness. She’s young and a tad na?ve, but she’s got a sharp tongue and quick wit when she needs it.
She bats her eyelashes at him and says, “I’ve never had a man explain it to me that way before. What does that mean? ‘High value woman?’”
The server returns and presents a bottle of white wine for Maxim to examine. He gives it a twirl and sniff, and I catch Tati struggling not to roll her eyes. The server pours her a glass of the wine.
She prefers vodka.
Yet, she takes the offered glass and sips from it delicately, shooting a wink my way. I’m sure her date is “educating” her on what makes someone “high value”.
At least she’s having fun tonight. She already knows this man doesn’t have a chance at a second date, so she’s playing with him.
Her smirk turns into an exaggerated, sympathetic pout. “It must be exhausting carrying all the masculine burden of a relationship.”
Roman relaxes. She’s toying with him, he signs.
And he doesn’t even know it, I sign back.
“Just so I’m clear, when women are with a high value, masculine man, she feels safe enough to submit completely and live in her ‘soft girl era’?”
I almost laugh again.
Maxim must go on a long explanation, because for the rest of the meal, Tati only smiles politely, nods, and feeds him platitudes as they eat their meals. He ordered a fish and a salad for her.
Prick.
For dessert, he orders a creme Brulé for himself and nothing for her. The audacity.
Can you believe him? She signs to me underneath the table. I know she’s not expecting a response because she doesn’t look over to me.
Then her polite smile vanishes and turns deadly. Whatever he’s said has crossed a line.
I look to Roman. He asked about you.
What about?
Roman’s slow to sign, but he’s deliberate.
That if she really expected to date a high-value man, he should be the only man in her life.
My stomach sours because I’ve had the exact same thoughts before. Not this prick, or anything about a high-value man, but about her future husband. Can she really fall in love with someone when she’s living with me? Could she really find a guy who would be okay with our friendship?
Am I keeping my best friend, the love of my life, from finding her own true love?