27. Laila
27
LAILA
Responding to Arsen’s texts was my first mistake.
Turns out, my unbelievably handsome husband might also be funny, which just goes to show that God really does have favorites. Save some charisma for the rest of us, jerk.
My second and third mistakes were putting on the dress and heels he sent for me to wear and squeezing my pregnant ass in a car, just to come prance around in front of a bunch of rich people I have no desire to know.
“I want to go home.”
I peek through the double doors that lead into the ballroom, but I don’t see Arsen anywhere. Maybe he hasn’t seen me yet. Maybe, by the time he realizes I’m not coming, it’ll be too late to fetch me, and I can hide at home.
Take that, Master.
“Too bad.” Dominik pries my nails out of his sleeve. “Arsen is already in there. He’s expecting you. I’m deep enough on his shit list as it is.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what he’s expecting. I don’t want to go in there, Dom. I don’t know how to do—” I wave an arm around to capture the general finery. “— this. The fancy clothes, the fancy people.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you look sensational.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirrors that panel the lobby. The lilac fabric flows gracefully over my bump. The off-the-shoulder neckline is just low enough to display some subtle cleavage and show off the new diamonds draped around my neck.
“Fine. I will concede that I look… passable. But I don’t feel like myself.” I kick a foot out from beneath my dress, sending a barb of pain straight into my hip. “I also can’t feel my toes.”
The three-inch Ferragamo stilettos are gorgeous, but they come at a price, and I’m paying it with interest.
Dominik extends an elbow. “That’s why you’ve got me.”
“There’s no way out of this, is there?”
“Not unless you think you can run in those heels.”
With that option wildly out of reach, I loop my arm through Dom’s and let him lead me to the wolves.
The moment we walk in, gazes swivel in our direction. We meander through the room, smiling all the while looking for Arsen.
“When I see your boss,” I mumble, “I’m gonna kick his ass.”
Dominik chuckles. “I’d pay good money to see that. Especially in front of this crowd.”
“Who are all these people?”
“To put it simply: nothing gets done in this city without the say-so from one of the people in this room.”
“Ah, so just a bunch of nobodies.” When I see a huge sign highlighting tonight’s cause— Kill Cancer— I jerk to a stop, my arm slipping from Dominik’s. “I thought this gala was to fund another wing of St. Francis Memorial. That’s what Arsen said.”
No mention of cancer.
I’d remember that.
“It is. A specialty wing dedicated to cancer patients.”
My jaw drops. “Did he know that?”
“Considering they wanted to name the whole damn wing after him, I’m going to assume so.”
“Why would they name the wing after him?” I ask, fearing I already know the answer.
Handsome, funny, and curing cancer. Your classic triple threat.
“He’s footing most of the bill—but don’t tell anyone,” Dominik whispers. “He hates giving speeches. Does his best work in the shadows, our friend Arsen does.”
He also prefers to work in the shadows when it comes to his personal history, apparently.
“Do the people here know about his mom?”
I can’t imagine we’d be standing here right now if they did. The last thing he’d want is to talk about his mother all evening.
Dominik tenses. “He told you about her?”
“Polina did. A little bit, anyway. Did you get to meet her?”
“No. She died before we met.” He clears his throat and looks past me. “Ah, there he is. And not a moment too soon. Off we go, pip-pip, put a little hustle in your bustle.”
Distracted, I follow Dominik through the crowd. Then I spot Arsen, too, and…
Oh, wow.
My knees nearly buckle at the sight of him. The man could make Adonis look like a pimple-infested teenager.
He’s in a midnight blue suit with an ivory t-shirt, no tie. Everyone else is in black tuxedos, but somehow they look underdressed compared to him. He’s tan, tattooed, gleaming, flawless. He rises head and shoulders above the crowd. Every eye that passes over him comes back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.
He doesn’t seem to notice us. He’s too busy charming the pants off the small throng of people clustered at his feet.
There’s a gorgeous blonde on his right hanging on his every word. She’s wearing a dress that would make Jessica Rabbit look conservative. Her flat stomach makes me all the more aware of my very large belly as I bobble over to join a crowd I clearly don’t belong in.
Arsen’s eyes sweep over me. “Laila. You’re here.”
He holds out his arm—apparently, I’m expected to walk into it. I’m nothing if not a people pleaser, so I do as Master implies and scootch in. His hand flattens against the small of my back, pulling me against his chest as he presses a chaste kiss to my cheek.
“Everyone, may I introduce Laila Adamov, my wife.”
A murmur of interest runs through the group of people.
“‘Wife’?” Jessica Rabbit gives me a scathing once-over. “Well, that’s a surprise.”
Arsen doesn’t offer any explanations apart from my introduction, and Jessica Rabbit aside, this group is far too polite to ask. Within a few minutes, they splinter off, but I feel their eyes on me as they defray around the room.
“You sure know how to drop a bomb,” I tell him.
He smirks. “I like to make an impression.”
“Who’s she?” I ask, unable to stop myself from gesturing over to Jessica Rabbit.
“Elenor Martinsen. Her father owns a chain of casinos. When she’s not being a trust fund baby, she’s a model.”
“Of course she is.”
Arsen hooks a finger underneath my chin and forces my gaze from Elenor Martin-whatever to him. “You look beautiful, roza . Diamonds suit you.”
Blushing, I lean away from his touch. “People are staring at us.”
“They’re staring at you , Laila . And honestly, I can’t blame them.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is this the kind of song-and-dance I should expect with these functions? Are you going to be sweet to me all night or do your friends know it’s a total ruse?”
He snorts with laughter. “Don’t ruin the illusion . It’s our little secret.”
I’m about to ask if I’m actually seeing Mick Jagger at the bar when Arsen growls under his breath. “He should know better than to show up to one of my charity events.”
“The Rolling Stones?” Then I follow his gaze and see him staring at a blonde man with impeccable bone structure and silver spikes on his loafers. “Not a friend of yours, I take it?”
Arsen scowls. “That’s Matthew Cole. He’s been trying to get Adamov Liquor into his bars in the industrial district.”
“That sounds like a good thing. More drinks sold, more money, right?”
Arsen draws me in a little closer. “Ordinarily, you’d be right. But the alcohol I offer is as popular as it is because of its inherent exclusivity. You can’t find it everywhere. Only certain bars and hotels in the city offer Adamov Liquor. The name carries a certain cache.”
“And Matthew Cole’s bars don’t pass muster?”
“I have standards to maintain . Just because something is popular doesn’t mean it’s good.”
“High school Laila would’ve loved that advice,” I mutter.
Someone pops up just then and steals Arsen’s attention. I squeak out something about the bathroom and break off from him in search of a quiet corner to hide out in for a little while. I do take a detour to inhale a shrimp cocktail, but just when I’m resuming my quest for a sanctuary, a tuxedoed body blocks my path.
“Well, hello there.” Matthew Cole looks me up and down shamelessly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I swallow the last of the shrimp in my mouth and take his offered hand. “Laila Barnes.”
Instead of shaking my hand, he brings it to his lips. “It’s hard to miss a new face in these tired old circles. I’m Matthew Cole.”
I feel the moment Arsen spots us like a shift in the magnetic field. But I force myself to keep my eyes on the man in front of me. “Do you come to a lot of these events?”
“All of them, unfortunately. They’re quite boring. Unless, of course, you meet someone who’d also rather be anywhere else. Then it can be fun.” He winks at me like we didn’t just meet fifteen seconds ago. “We might just be kindred spirits, Laila.”
“What makes you think I don’t want to be here?”
“Because I’ve been watching you for the last hour. You didn’t laugh hysterically over Mayor Klein’s dimwitted joke about election rigging, you didn’t compliment his wife on her pearls, and you didn’t seem at all impressed when Jerry Hunnam was boasting about his new mansion in the Valley.”
“Oh. Well, you’re right that I don’t really give a shit about the guest list,” I admit. “But I do give a shit about the cause.”
“You might be the only person here who does.”
“Me and Arsen.”
His smile grows a little cold. “Arsen Adamov isn’t here to cure cancer.”
I shrug and reach for another shrimp cocktail. “I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise.”
“Are you here with him?”
“What do you think, Cole?” Arsen interrupts, putting himself between Matthew and me.
“Adamov,” Matthew grimaces. “How on earth did you manage to score the prettiest date here?”
Arsen makes a show of wrapping his arm around me. “Marrying her helped.”
Matthew’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. “Since when?”
“Recently. We wanted to do it before our daughter was born.” Arsen grazes a kiss along my neck. I try to wriggle away from him, but he just grips me tighter.
“Well, then.” Matthew raises his glass. “Congratulations are in order.”
Arsen takes a small drink, his eyes never leaving the other man’s. “How’s business?”
Matthew pulls himself up to his full height. “Booming. You really missed out.”
“I’ll try to survive the disappointment. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to introduce my wife to Stuart.”
Matthew’s polite smile turns into a full-on scowl as Arsen leads me away.
“Stuart Roundhouse is his direct competitor,” he explains in an amused whisper.
“Arsen! You’re poking his buttons on purpose.”
“Serves the bastard right for trying to schmooze my woman.”
I ignore the satisfaction that buzzes through me at his words. “So should we pull out a ruler and start measuring dicks now, or do we save that for later? Maybe after the arm wrestling?”
He ignores my jab and spins around, stopping in front of me. “You’re doing very well. You look like you belong.”
I take a bite of my shrimp, but I can barely enjoy it because Arsen seems fixated on my mouth as I chew. “Yeah, well, once I got over the initial nerves, I realized something: I don’t care what these people think of me.”
Arsen reaches out and tucks a loose curl of hair behind my ear. “You really don’t, do you?”
It’s not really a question. He says it softly, almost like he’s talking to himself.
I can’t quite explain why it feels like the greatest compliment he’s ever given me.