Page 81 of Sinful Bride

Of course she has a better way to word it than I do. I will need to start taking notes and mimicking her confidence. I’m too used to having my ideas and voice squashed under toxic misogyny.

“Mrs. Chekhov—I mean, Daphne—has decided to act as a silent owner of the gallery. On paper, she’s the de facto signatory and final voice on all major decisions. In person, she’s a curator who works with artists directly.”

“I feel better keeping things that way,” I add.

Hazel nods. “No, that totally makes sense. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.”

“Exactly.”

With that finalized, I take my leave and hurry off to enjoy my new office.

Except I’ve got other things on my mind. Things that have to do with how and why my new phone numbers keep showing up in the wrong hands.

Especially when the only people who I ever gave any of the numbers to, outside of Pasha and his family—who hate my parents—were the two people in that casual meeting.

Hazel would never betray me like that. She’d sooner crush Conrad’s other hand and both his feet before allowing him to send me a damn carrier pigeon, let alone text or call me.

I don’t know Aubrey as well. But I don’t see someone flying so smoothly under Pasha’s radar. He’s meticulous about these things.

And she seems so nice. Once I’m in my new office—which is breathtaking—I lock the door and hit the name of the one person I can trust to help me without freaking out.

“Happy First Day Back!” Sofi chimes on her end. “How’s it going?”

“Great! Great. Just… great. Aubrey is amazing, and Hazel is always amazing, and it just feels so, so fucking good to be contributing to society again.”

Sofi giggles. She must be out running errands or something. Her “I’m a sweet, innocent young woman at Starbucks” persona is on. “Glad to hear. Oh! Hey! We should do lunch to celebrate! And invite the ladies, too.”

“Yes! Also…” I plop in my chair and blow out a breath. “I need your help.”

“Shoot.”

“I may be wrong, I may be barking up a completely different tree than I should, but…”

Why is it so hard to ask? She’s practically my own sister. Why are these butterflies turning into wasps inside my gut?

“Seriously, Daph. It’s okay. You know I’m here for you. What’s up?”

“Could you do me a favor and log into the gallery’s employee database to see if anyone’s been poking in there who doesn’t belong?”

It all flies out like it’s a singular word.

Surprisingly, she understands every syllable. The giggling stops and her voice drops closer to the “Bratva Bitch”—her term—tone I’ve come to know so well.

“You think you have a hacker?”

“Unless our newest addition is a double agent? Yes.”

She scoffs. “No way. Pasha would never be that clumsy. Alright, give me a few seconds…” Her voice trails off as she pulls her phone away from her ear, probably to text someone.

“I can let you go for now. I didn’t mean to barge in on your day.”

“Daphne. Listen to me. Family comes first. You are family, so you come first. I’m just waiting for my frappe, anyways. Place is packed. Ah, here we go.”

“You got something? So soon?”

“Can’t afford to be slow in this life, sis. Always be a mile ahead of your enemies. Only one step ahead gives them the opportunity to stomp all over you.”

“Remind me to frame that for Taty’s wall when she’s older.”

---