Page 175 of Cashmere Cruelty

“… to the bathroom,” she adds through gritted teeth.

“My feet are killing me today.” I nod along and put on my best puppy dog eyes. “I went searching on my own and got totally lost. Plus, the baby’s been kicking like crazy.”

The man in front of us seems to mellow a bit. I glance at his nametag—Bobby, Assistant Manager.“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Help our guest, then get your ass to the ticket booth. Fashion show starts in ten.”

“Will do.” Petra smiles, all sweet and poisonous.

I send a mental prayer out for this guy’s soul. Petra’s perfectly capable of settling matters here, then finding out where Bobby lives and making him eat his words. Possibly with a side of knives.

“And put your nametag on!” he calls after us.

By my side, I hear her mutter, “I’ll put my nametag up your?—”

I drag Petra out of earshot. As soon as we’re around the corner, I hiss, “Are you insane? Were you actually going to kill that guy?”

She seems shocked that I’d dare cross her like this. In my predicament, it’s certainly not the smartest thing to do. But I can’t let other people get hurt because of me.

“What?” she snaps. “It’s not like anyone would miss him.”

“I didn’t come here to kill, Petra,” I hiss. “I came here to help. So let me help.”

Something in my words must get through to her, because I watch her mask of ice crack just a little deeper. “And how are you planning on doing that?”

“Do you trust me?”

It’s a stupid question: of course Petra doesn’t trust me. She kidnapped me. She held me at gunpoint. She forced me to come up with a plan to steal millions in diamonds, risking my freedom in the process.

She threatenedmy child.

So why is a part of me still hoping she’ll say yes?

Petra’s expression shutters. The cold seeps back in, turning everything to frost. “I trust you to do whatever it takes to keep yourself alive.”

I nod, swallowing my disappointment. “Good enough. Then follow me.”

Wordlessly, she does.

Getting backstage is a nightmare. Everywhere we turn, there seems to be someone just around the corner: staff, guards, angry businesspeople yelling into their phones.

But somehow, we manage.

The second we sneak into the changing room, I push Petra behind a privacy screen. “Alright, clothes off. Now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I glance around and see the first models starting to line up for the show. “We don’t have time to argue,” I say. “Do you want your tiara or not?”

Without waiting for a reply, I swipe a black trench coat from the coat rack. Then, rummaging through the pockets, I find a pair of sunglasses and put them on. “I’m gonna need your dress, too.”

I’m expecting resistance, but Petra simply hands me her bag. “Watch your hands,” she warns.

I frown at her words, but immediately grasp what they’re about as soon as I start going through her things. “Oh, wow. That’s a lot of knives.”

Then a lightbulb goes off in my head.

I get to work without a moment to spare: I grab a knife, pull the fabric taut, and start tearing the dress to pieces.

“Blyat’, what the hell are you doing?!” Petra screeches.

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