8. Elanee
8
ELANEE
O ne month later…
Mirabella Latine has been describing her ideal partner so rapidly I couldn’t keep up with the many notes and celebrity references—a woman in her late thirties who has had two divorces. The same day that her divorce was finalized, she’d wound up at my office two weeks ago, exactly where we’re sitting today. And by definition was a complete pain in my ass.
Despite her flamboyant attitude, I was dutifully trying to find her an appropriate match and, privately, judging some of her unrealistic expectations. But she’s amongst many of my clients who expect the same, and the truth is, I do enjoy my job. It’s intriguing exploring the wealthy’s motives and their definition of love. And often, what most of them desire is a marriage into a name that is more renowned than their own.
A portion of that clientele also involved fathers trying to curate appropriate matchmaking for their daughters. One that they approve of first before any sort of meeting ever transpired.
Mirabella, however, despite how fickle was after the notion of love. But I had the suspicion that she fell in love as quickly as she did out of it. And she was willing to pay for it.
“Third time’s the charm, right?” Mirabella smiles brightly.
“Well, you have quite an extensive list and seem to know what you want.” The four-page spreadsheet of “desirable qualities” didn’t leave any room for doubt.
With only twenty minutes left, I steal a glance at the wall clock. Despite the strangeness of my situation, the fact that I was allowed to return to New York granted me a semblance of freedom, albeit with some conditions. The only disruption to this freedom was Dmitri's abrupt intrusion into my apartment a month ago. But I persevered.
I push the memory of Dmitri's intrusion into a box, sealing it shut with the weight of many others I never want to revisit.
Although it was a false sense of freedom, I still noted the parts The Lion controlled. The office I was permitted to work from was owned by the Barone family. Although I didn’t know Alexander Barone personally, I’d met his daughter, Ara, only a week ago to find her an eligible bachelor despite rumors of her association with one of the Armani brothers—another family I was clearly advised to stay away from since the Italian boss owned most of Manhattan. So, I suspected even down where I worked, was under supervision and contract with someone The Lion had dealings with.
But at least it was something a little closer to home.
And I did find a spark of enjoyment being able to decorate my own office with a green feature wall, a dark olive long chair in the corner and a few potted plants.
It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
For now.
“What about someone younger this time?” Mirabella enthuses. “I see a lot on the Armani brothers or Ronald Welsh. Ooh, I don’t mind the looks of Dmitri Volkov. He attended a charity a few weeks ago, and I must confess I like what I see.”
My smile’s tight at the mention of Dmitri. She wasn’t the first client to suggest him, and it grated on my nerves every time because I in no way wanted to deal with him. And so he was always put at the back of the pile.
“I’ll rally my resources and make some suggestions,” I say, keeping the polite smile.
“Do you, by chance, do remote work?” she asks as she reapplies her lipstick.
“Remote in what way?”
“I’ve been invited to my sister’s wedding.” She rolls her eyes, and the jealousy is obvious. She combs over her long platinum blonde hair. “Say, for example, if I could get you on the list for the wedding, do you think you could scout for me then?”
My eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Where is your sister’s wedding?”
“Texas.” She smiles and it’s almost blinding. I shouldn’t have asked because she’s acting as if I’ve already agreed.
“It’s not something I do usually.”
“Of course, I’m willing to pay for it all. A weekend away might do some good for your complexion,” she jests. Pale complexion jokes were often made because of my lack of a tan. With an American father and a Scandinavian mother, my sister and I had received her porcelain like skin and blonde hair. But we had my father’s brown eyes.
“I appreciate the offer, but—”
“I insist,” she cuts me off again. “Have a think about it. Money is no barrier when it comes to love.” She laughs at herself as she stands, and for the first time, her tiny, bagged dog looks at me. Even the dog has an authority complex as it somehow stares down its nose at me.
“Continue sending me through options until then. I look forward to who you have in mind. I heard you’re the best since coming to town.”
I offer a polite smile. It’s true that my clientele built quickly as I had my reputation to lean back on from Moscow.
“Oh my gosh,” she enthuses and tries to seize my wrist. My reflexes are too sharp as I snatch it back, and there’s a moment of tension that ripples between us. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, dearie. I just can’t believe how beautiful that bracelet is. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. You must be a lucky woman!” She waves her finger back and forth and acts as if I’ve been holding out on her.
And that’s where The Lion’s branding works as a double-edged blade. Everywhere I go, people compliment me on it. This piece of jewelry that I’m never allowed to remove.
When I had the rose gold bracelet with an intricate placement of amethysts dusting on it appraised, and it came in at a stunning twenty thousand and I’d give anything to smash it into pieces.
Every time I’m complimented on it, I have to grit my teeth and say thank you to hide the reality of its meaning and hovering presence.
Ownership.
Shackle.
A flightless bird.
The moment Mirabella leaves, I pack my laptop into my bag and lock the office. I’d recently found enjoyment in walking through the park in the afternoon, and I had an hour until my next client. Since returning, I hadn’t reached out to any friends; despite the amount of messages I’d received I ignored them all. Sure, some of them probably thought I was a snobby bitch, but I’d rather them think that than know the reality and anyone else getting hurt.
Holding two hot chocolates, I admire the spring leaves doing their best to bloom as I walk through the park. One was for me, and the other was for the homeless woman who frequented the park. Being the start of spring, it was still chilly, and so I frequented her with hot beverages. In return, she always offered an enlightening note in kind gesture.
But I looked forward to it for other reasons. Whether she’s homeless or employed by Dmitri, I’m not entirely sure. But only a week after the incident, when Dmitri broke into my apartment, he’d developed this clever idea, which left no traces of our communication. As much as I wanted to ignore Dmitri, he also had my sister, Layla, write me notes.
A man walks past and flicks a coin into her beanie on the ground. She offers him a note, but he ignores it and keeps walking.
“Ahh, beautiful lady,” the woman announces excitably when she spots me. She holds out a note in exchange for the hot chocolate.
“How’s your day been?” I ask politely and unfold her message of the day.
I know who’s writing it is the moment I unfurl the paper because I always used to give him shit for his horrible handwriting. But it makes me cling to it all the more.
If ever in danger. Come to the Lev club. I’ll protect you and your family.
Also, the bakery called Cappa, which you walk past every morning, offers delicious bagels.
They have the weird spicey jalapeno crème that you like.
Weirdo.
I fold the note up and offer it back to the homeless woman.
Being honest with myself helped me not entirely break apart. It was the last thing I clung to. So, if I could be selfish in only this, I’d pick up each letter and read them carefully. But I’d never return one. Because despite their declarations of freeing me, I knew my wings were already clipped. I was just waiting for when The Lion would tire of this game and pluck me from the city.
And who knows what was to happen to me after that.