35. Sandrine
Sandrine
“Stand still for me, honey.” A dressmaker smooths her hand across my waist, tugging the gown fabric tighter.
With more dresses for Kirill’s coronation next week in shades of white and gold lined up on the rack behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror.
I look calm and elegant. As if I belong beside a man like Kirill Volkov. Inside, I still feel scrambled.
“This is the one,” the dress shop owner says softly behind me. “Definitely.”
My fingers brush the bodice absently. “The dress is beautiful, Dahlia.”
The heavy silk hugs my body while the gold threading catches the light with every breath I take.
Did I imagine what this would be like someday? Before the accident? I keep wondering how I felt about being a Bratva queen. Being crowned in a secret ceremony.
Kirill said we didn’t talk about him rising to pakhan. I had to know that being his wife would put me in the spotlight like this. His father wasn’t going to live forever.
The dressmakers keep working, adjusting the hem, the sleeves, asking me to turn left then right.
“Do you want to try on any more, Mrs. Volkov?” Dahlia asks.
I honestly couldn’t tell much difference between the three I already tried on. “This is the one,” I say, lifting the skirt and stepping off the raised platform to go back to the dressing room.
I am halted by a woman with dark hair striding toward me.
She’s tall, almost as tall as Kirill. And she’s impeccably dressed in a cream-colored wool duster coat that’s hanging open to reveal a similar colored pants suit.
She has a tiny waist and huge breasts. I scan this woman because she’s everything that I’m not, from her long, flowing wavy hair to narrow-toed high heels.
How she walked along the icy sidewalks in them is both a mystery and annoying.
I can’t wear anything higher than a kitten heel without feeling dizzy.
Yet, the way this woman is looking at me while approaching has pain shooting in my head anyway.
I glance at my guard, who watches us, but doesn’t react.
They don’t see this woman who is marching toward the pakhan’s wife as a threat.
Standing there in a pinned dress, I say, “Can I help you?”
“It's nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Volkov,” she says, stopping short before me. And not holding out a hand to shake. Odd. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“And you are?” I give a weak smile.
“I’m Tamara Chernova,” she says with a sultry voice.
My stomach drops. Chernova. She’s Russian. She’s one of them. Wait, so am I.
I keep my expression neutral while my pulse stumbles hard enough that I feel it in my throat. I can’t have this Tamara or anyone else thinking I’m not strong enough to hold on to the Bratva Pakhan.
“Tamara? It’s interesting that you’ve heard about me. I’ve heard nothing about you.” I fold my arms and don’t react to the pinch in my skin from a pin.
Something flickers in Tamara’s eyes. “I’m an old friend of Kirill’s. He never mentioned me?”
I breathe and consider if she knows about my amnesia. Does anyone know what happened? One day I was married to the Bratva heir. We’d just had a baby. Next, I was gone. Did he explain to anyone in the brotherhood where I’ve been?
That I don’t remember anything? Would he let them believe I ran away, and he dragged me back here to make me look defiant, rather than tell them the truth and let me look weak? Like maybe I can’t give him a son who will be the next pakhan?
Whether Kirill mentioned this woman to me five years ago is irrelevant compared to everything I lost. He had a chance to forget about me, write me off, and be with someone else. He waited. He stayed single and celibate for me.
I say what I think will hurt this woman more. “No. Like I said, he never mentioned you.”
“That is so Kirill,” she responds with a bite that quiets the shop.
I fold my arms in defiance. “I would know. I’m his wife.”
“For now.” Her gaze moves over me. Assessing. Sizing me up. “I can’t believe you left Kirill. And your baby.”
Tears prick my eyes as fast as a bullet from a gun. My throat tightens, and I’m helpless to respond. I want to scream that I didn’t. But I don’t know if I left him and Violet with the intent of never returning.
“I’m not sure what you’ve heard,” I counter with a non-answer. “And the fact that I never heard of you tells me you’re not important to my husband.”
Her smile drops a touch as she considers if I’m telling the truth. Then she smiles. “Kirill always kept his secrets.”
The word always catches on my last nerve about this woman. We agree on something: Kirill does keep secrets. This woman being one of them.
“You’ve known my husband long?”
“Most of my life.” Her smile adds another tiny cut I’m trying to keep from bleeding all over this white dress.
Dahlia steps back, seeing this might turn into a catfight. “Mrs. Volkov, I—”
“Madam Volkov,” I correct her as Kirill had done to that hostess. “I’m done here. I need to pick up my daughter.”
The biting tone has my guard on his feet, a hand in his jacket. But the fact that he’s not immediately tackling Tamara tells me she has status in this brotherhood. But how? Why?
Done with this, I turn away.
But Tamara’s voice sails over my shoulder. “Violet will love Geneva Prep.”
My stomach flips again, and I stop. How does she know Kirill wanted to send Violet there?
Brain scrambling, I reason that if she’s known Kirill her whole life, she knows he went to that boarding school and perhaps it’s natural he’d make that choice for his child, rather than it was something he discussed personally with her.
“My daughter isn’t going anywhere,” I argue back, over my shoulder.
Tamara strides closer to me and then speaks lower. “You left him once. You’ll leave him again. And then he’ll be mine. Really mine. And Violet will be in Geneva.”
This woman saying my daughter’s name makes me wish I had a knife to slash her throat. I step back, seeing all the blood.
What was that?
I’m not violent, am I?
“Ms. Chernova, I have your dress choices laid out for you,” Dahlia says, gesturing toward the other set of sofas and mirrored platform.
Tamara eyes me up and down, but she’s speaking to Dahlia. “Do you have the ones I specifically asked for?”
“Yes, Ms. Chernova.”
And with that, Tamara walks away. Leaving me standing in the middle of the boutique with the ugly thoughts she planted taking root.
I change out of the dress with the help of one of the seamstresses so I don’t ruin the pinning. Fully dressed and standing at the counter to pay, I reach into my purse to use the new black card my husband gave me.
That conversation comes back at me in a way I’m not sure it would have if this didn’t happen. I need to self-soothe and remember who Kirill is with me. When it’s just us.
“What is the credit limit?” I asked, staring at my name on it. Sandrine Volkov.
“There is none,” he answered, like telling a woman she has an unlimited spending allowance didn’t raise his heart rate.
“How much can I spend on my dress?” I stared up at the dumbfounded look on his face.
“Don’t even look at the price tags,” he said, then kissed me. “I look forward to getting calls from my bank to approve very large purchases.”
Kirill’s kiss still burning on my lips, I ask Dahlia, “What do I owe you?”
As my husband suggested, I didn’t look at the price tag.
“It’s our gift.” Dahlia leans in. “For the new pakhan.”
That sort of deflates the fun of spending a rich husband’s money.
“I’ll tell him,” I say, unsure if Kirill would want gifts like this.
A possible payout for one of her other customers being rude to me.
Heart still pounding, I get into the new armored SUV my husband bought for me and notice I actually have two hours before Violet gets out of school.
The second I slide into the backseat, I pull out the phone Kirill gave me. I’m still reeling inside over that confrontation with Tamara. Her name crashes into my brain.
Tamara. Tamara. Tamara.
My fingers hesitate over the Google prompt for half a second, wondering what to type. Are my searches being monitored?
Shaking, I type: Kirill Volkov Tamara Chernova Chicago
The internet answers instantly with photos flooding my screen in tiny uneven boxes with captions underneath.
Thank you very much. Not!
I hadn’t even thought to Google my own husband before this. I haven’t Googled anyone. This is the only phone I’ve had since the accident. Elodie showed me her phone, her social media accounts. As a reporter, she used it all the time, and often said how lucky I was to be off the grid.
Now I wish I still was.
Seeing photos of Kirill at galas, charity events, fundraisers, and black-tie dinners has my stomach in knots. In every scene, he looks so severe and beautiful in dark suits that look painted on his body.
At first, it’s just him in the feed. Then my heart leaps into my throat, seeing that dark-haired woman beside him.
Tamara.
She’s all sharp cheekbones, slinky dresses, and a beaming smile with her arm linked around my husband’s elbow.
While he was still married.
Given her Russian heritage, she would have been the proper wife Yuri wanted for his son, no doubt. Kirill doesn’t have his arm around her in any of the photos, but she’s holding on to him. His smile looks practiced.
Now, I get what it means to go down a rabbit hole. I wish someone would shoot me or send a terrier to come fetch me out of this thing by the neck. Biting my lip, I click on one of the thumbnails to read the articles.
Each one speculates about an upcoming engagement between the elusive CEO of Mid-West Iron and an executive’s daughter.
Two of the most powerful families in Chicago are joining together.
Yuri Volkov Approved!
Chicago’s most eligible and mysterious bachelor may be off the market, ladies.
The headlines keep going.
Looking closer, it pains me to notice how comfortable he stands beside her. A piercing ache settles in my chest. It’s part jealousy and part anger since I had no idea about her until now.
Did I know about her before? Or was that a false bluff?