6. Katya
Katya
The turtleneck dress made perfect sense when I pulled it from my closet.
It's black, fitted, elegant, and most importantly, it covers everything from my chin to my knees, which feels appropriate for a dinner that is absolutely not a date with a man I barely know—especially considering it's early winter and already freezing.
I pair it with sensible black velvet pumps, a blazer, and simple gold jewelry.
Lacey, who invited herself over, takes one look at me when I open the door and wrinkles her nose.
"No." She pushes past me, making her way to the couch where she throws a garment bag.
"What's wrong with it?" I look down at myself. "It's classic."
"It's ugly." She lifts a brow at me. "You look like you're going to a funeral. Or a board meeting. Or a board meeting at a funeral."
"It's dinner with a friend."
Lacey gives me a look that makes me feel very stupid. "A friend who sent you fifty-one white roses and wrote you poetry in Russian." She unzips the garment bag with gusto. "Who is hot, rich, and clearly wants to fuck you."
I sputter, eyes wide. "He doesn't?—"
"Either way, you are not wearing a turtleneck."
"Lacey—"
"Here," she shoves a dress at me, "I brought backup."
It's black, full length, sleeveless, with a deep V-neckline and a cutout at the bust that makes my eyes go wide. The fabric is a fitted knit that drapes in a column from waist to floor, elegant and structured, with tiny velvet hearts that somehow make it appear sweet despite the sexy cut.
"This is what you wear on a date."
"I can't borrow this," I say, despite how much I want to. "It's a four-hundred-dollar dress."
Lacey continues holding it out to me. "And I've got a closet full of them."
I sigh. I know she's not going to take no for an answer.
"It's a little sexy for a friendly dinner, don't you think?"
Lacey rolls her eyes and presses the dress into my arms before turning me toward the bathroom.
"You are twenty-four years old, Katya. You have a body that most women would commit crimes for, and you insist on hiding it under knitwear that belongs on someone's grandmother.
" She steers me toward the bathroom door.
"Artem Orlov is a man, and you need to dress like an adult woman going to dinner, not like a teenager interviewing at the UN. "
I want to argue, but I'm already holding the dress, already feeling the soft fabric between my fingers, already imagining the look on his face when he sees me in it.
So instead, I listen and put the dress on. It's beautiful, and I hate that Lacey is right.
It is kind of perfect, and when I come out of the bathroom, Lacey smiles at me, satisfaction written all over her face.
"I knew it." She turns me to the mirror, and I can't help but stare at my reflection, pleased with how I look.
The dress falls to the floor in a clean column, the fitted bodice hugging every line of my dancer's figure, the V-neckline deep enough to be interesting without being excessive.
The cutout at the bust is a small window of skin that feels daring for someone who usually wears ballet leotards and sweats, but it is actually very tasteful.
It's sexy without trying hard, and yet I still feel exposed.
I shiver just thinking about stepping outside in this. "It's freezing outside."
Lacey holds up a pashmina. "Wear this."
I hold it up, not sure if she is serious. "Lacey—it's like thirty degrees with the wind chill."
She blows a breath out between her teeth. "You aren't eating outside," she says, anticipating my complaints. "It's perfect. You look amazing." She reaches out and pulls the pin from my hair. "Wear your hair down. It's sexier."
She's not wrong. I do look sexier with my curls untamed around my face.
"Now sit down and let me do something with your makeup."
I sit, thinking it's probably best not to argue with her.
By the time she's finished, I look sexy and elegant, like I haven't tried too hard to look great.
Lacey smirks. "Damn, I'm good."
I chuckle.
She digs her fingers slightly into my shoulder. "This is what we are supposed to be doing with our youth, not just working."
"Going to dinner?"
"Dating hot men."
She gives me a look, and I know she is going to be disappointed when she learns I will be home at a reasonable hour and not doing the walk of shame to rehearsal tomorrow.
I keep my lips sealed, allowing her to live out her mental fantasy for me.
Artem is on time—to the minute—wearing a dark suit that is perfectly tailored to his form, his pale hair neat, his ice-blue eyes traveling down my body appreciatively, making me shiver.
"Katya." His voice is warm in a way that makes the name feel like something different, something that belongs specifically to the way he says it.
"Artem." I wrap my pashmina around my shoulders, grateful for something to do with my hands. I'm nervous, and I wish I hadn't told Lacey to go home. I could use some of her confidence at this moment. "You're very punctual."
"I try to be." I flush at the satisfaction on his face. "You look lovely."
"Thank you."
"Are you going to be warm enough?"
"Are we walking?" If so, I'm definitely going to need a coat and new shoes, screw what Lacey thinks.
He bites back a chuckle. "No," he tells me, the word rolling off his tongue neatly. I can hear the Russian accent clearly in how he says it. "My mother would roll in her grave if she thought I'd expect a woman to walk to dinner."
I laugh, picturing a fierce Russian mother lecturing a young Artem on etiquette, and it breaks the ice between us.
Something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes. "Shall we?"
The car waiting downstairs is black and expensive, with a driver who doesn't speak and partitions that ensure complete privacy.
I sit with my hands folded in my lap and try not to be conspicuously aware of how close Artem is sitting, of how he smells like cedar and something warm and spiced that makes me think of curling up in a blanket by a fire, and of how the city lights catch on the sharp planes of his face when we pass beneath streetlamps.
He asks me about rehearsal, and I tell him about the new variation, and somehow the conversation carries us all the way to the restaurant without a single awkward silence.
The restaurant is everything I would have expected from a man like him and nothing I would have chosen for myself.
I'm more of a grab-a-salad type, not a private steakhouse tucked into a brownstone on the Upper East Side.
The space is all dark wood paneling, low lighting, and tables spaced far enough apart that conversations stay contained.
The ma?tre d' greets Artem by name and leads us to a corner table that's essentially its own small world, separated from the rest of the room by a half partition and deep enough into the restaurant that we're entirely removed from the noise of the street.
It's intimate without being romantic, elegant without being performative, and I'm suddenly very glad Lacey made me wear this dress and not the turtleneck.
Artem is clearly a wealthy man, but this is the kind of place old money frequents, and I feel self-conscious as I take a sip of my club soda, like I'm not old or fancy enough to be here.
"Do you like it?" Artem asks, watching me take in the room.
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. "Do you come here often?"
"I've been a few times for business." He opens his menu with the ease of someone accustomed to places like this. "I wanted somewhere quiet where we could hear one another."
Something warm moves through my chest. I've never been on a date like this—with a man who actually makes plans.
"I should have asked if you eat meat."
I chuckle. "I'm Russian."
He lifts his glass of vodka, a challenge in his eyes because he knows I don't drink.
I scoff. "Some things are sacred."
He chuckles, and I try not to focus on how much I enjoy the deep rumble of his laugh, or how comforting the scent of his cologne is.
"Tell me about your dancing," Artem says after we order. "What brought you to the stage?"
It's such a direct question, so unexpectedly personal, that I answer before I think to deflect.
"Dancing is the one place where I know exactly who I am and what I'm supposed to be doing.
Off stage, I'm always—" I pause, searching for the right word.
"Uncertain. About what people want from me, about whether I'm doing the right things, saying the right things.
But on stage, none of that exists. Just the music and the movement and the story, and I know my place in all of it.
" I look away, his icy eyes too intense.
"It's one of the few places where I can hide, which seems silly, but it's true. "
He's watching me with a focus that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the room.
Normally I would fold into myself, hiding, but something about Artem captivates me.
I love watching him process my words. "You don't like attention?
" He asks it as a question, but in some ways it feels like a statement.
"I don't like being on display," I explain.
I expect a challenging look, a reminder that I do exactly that every week. Instead, he takes a sip from his glass. "And have you always known it's what you desired? To dance?"
"Always."
"It's admirable that you're so certain. Not many people are."
"Are you?"
His brow raises. "Sure of your own profession?" I realize I don't even know what he does. I take another sip. "Whatever that may be."
"Finance," he tells me.
I glance at him, waiting for more.
"Private equity."
I try not to wrinkle my nose, but I must not succeed in hiding my slight disgust because he chuckles again.
"It isn't quite the same. It's satisfying, in its way.
Numbers are honest—they don't lie, they don't feel, they simply are.
But I wouldn't say it gives me certainty. More like..." He pauses. "Control."
"Is control important to you?"
Something flickers in his eyes. "Immensely."