19. This dress has its own tax bracket. （Tamara）
THIS DRESS HAS ITS OWN TAX brACKET. (TAMARA)
When I step back into the fitting area, Aleksander lowers his phone slowly.
Then forgets to put it away.
“Well,” Diane says softly beside him. “There she is.”
My face gives me away immediately. Aleksander stands.
“That one,” he says.
“You like it?”
“I like you in it.”
The words land embarrassingly hard. Diane disappears with the efficiency of a woman who has learned exactly when not to be present.
I glance back toward the mirror.
“I feel like I should be going to some terrifying Upper East Side dinner where everyone pretends not to notice someone’s husband is having an affair with a Pilates instructor.”
Aleksander’s mouth twitches. “Those are easier than bratva dinners.”
“That’s deeply concerning.”
“It should be.”
I turn slightly, watching the silk move.
“This feels expensive enough to have its own tax bracket.”
“It probably does.”
I don’t argue with that, just file it away alongside the coffee cup at the market and the hand at my back and the fact that I’m still here.
His gaze remains fixed on me in a way that makes me too aware of my own skin. Not lust exactly. Attention—the kind that doesn’t look away.
And that feels more dangerous.
“You’re disturbingly good at this,” I mutter.
“At shopping?”
“At seeing things people are trying to hide.”
His face changes briefly, not pain. Memory.
“Elena used to say that too.”
The name lands gently this time instead of sharply.
“She had good taste?” I ask.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “She thought black cashmere was a personality trait.”
“That’s because it is.”
That finally earns a quiet laugh from him. Warm. Brief. Unexpected enough that I feel it somewhere beneath my ribs.
I look away first. The silence that follows is different from the others.
“Was it fast?” I ask.
Aleksander doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops briefly toward the middle distance—not avoiding the question. Locating the answer.
“Not at first,” he says. “Then all at once. Acute myeloid leukemia. Thirty-five percent survive. She wasn’t one of them.”
He gave me the number like he’d said it before. Like at some point knowing the odds precisely was the only thing that helped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Not harsh. Just precise. “She hated being mourned while she was still alive. I think she’d hate it now too.”
A pause.
“She sounds difficult,” I say.
“Extraordinarily.” He says it with the private warmth of a man who has earned the right to complain about her.
I look back at the mirror. Diane reappears carrying another dress.
“This one,” she says diplomatically, “is more structured.”
Which turns out to be Bergdorf’s language for obscenely expensive. The dress is charcoal silk with sharp architectural lines and a high neckline softened by the drape at the waist.
Elegant. Controlled. Safe.
When I step out wearing it, Aleksander studies me for several long seconds.
“This feels more like something you’d choose yourself,” he says finally.
“That’s either a compliment or an insult.”
“Observation.”
I glance toward the mirror again.
He’s right. The emerald refuses to apologize for being seen. This one feels like armor.
Aleksander leans back in the chair, his gaze steady on mine. “The emerald is better.”
“Because it’s less defensive?”
“Yes.”
I don’t know what to do with the honesty of that. Diane appears beside us again, clearly sensing financial opportunity. “The emerald will be ready by six,” she says smoothly. “And the charcoal as well, if you’d like both.”
I open my mouth automatically, already calculating whether objecting would be dignity or theater.
Aleksander answers before I decide. “Both.”
Diane smiles like a woman watching commission bloom.
I should argue. I don’t. That should probably concern me more than it does.