Page 36 of Cashmere Cruelty

So why does it feel so damn permanent?

“Please,” Grisha says, swiping the keycard to the penthouse and holding the door for me. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you.” I gulp.

I didn’t truly get a chance to look around before. I do now, taking in what’s going to be my new home for the next few… weeks? Months?

I don’t dare think “years.” I’m not sure my heart could take it.

The place is—well, it’s a luxury hotel penthouse. That alone sets it apart from any apartment I’ve ever seen. When I first went house-hunting with June, two eighteen-year-old girls with pennies to our names, the nicest place we could afford was our current one-bedroom in Brooklyn—and even then, it took months (and the adoption of a one-eyed cat) to chase out the rats.

Butthisplace?

The countertops are all marble. The furniture is a sleek, matte black. The couches—plural—are the highest-quality leather I’ve ever touched. Everything here screamsmoney.

And nothing here screamshome.

A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts. “Come in,” I call, thinking it must be Grisha with a hot towel or a mint chocolate for my pillow or something.

But it isn’t Grisha.

“Well, well,” a petite blond woman croons from the doorway, “if it isn’t Matvey’skoshka.I trust you didn’t have any trouble finding the place?”

I recognize her immediately. Even with her hair down, her clothes businesslike, there’s no mistaking who this person is.

The bride whose wedding I ruined.

From the doorway, two more figures come in. Women, though at first glance you’d never know. Tall, burly, muscled, they look every bit the part of what I suspect they are: bodyguards.

And not of the law-abiding kind.

“It’s Petra, right?” I ask, remembering Matvey’s words from yesterday. “I’m?—”

“April Flowers,” Petra replies sweetly, taking hold of my hand. “My fiancé’s tailor. And, well…” She looks down at my belly. “Something else, I’m certain.”

I blink. Maybe I’m misinterpreting here, but?—

Did this bitch just call me a bitch?

“Look,” I start, not wanting to drag this on any longer, “I’m so sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean for things to happen the way they did, but?—”

“But you justhappenedto stumble upon our wedding,” she completes for me. “And you really couldn’t wait any longer to break the news to my husband-to-be. Is that right?”

“That… Actually, yes,” I mumble. “That sounds about right.”

Petra smiles, all teeth. For a second, I’m reminded of a lioness—the pride’s hunter, capable of slaughtering gazelles with a single bite.

And, for some reason, I feel an awful lot like a gazelle.

“Let’s get one thing straight,cvetocek,” Petra coos, sticky-sweet. “I don’t know what tragic tale you spun for Matvey?—”

“‘I’m pregnant,’” I deadpan. “You know. You were there.”

“—or whose littleubljudokyou’re carrying in that kangaroo pouch of yours,” Petra continues, as if I hadn’t spoken.

Should I have taken Russian in high school? I’m starting to think I should’ve taken Russian.

Not that I need a translator to understand what Petra’s trying to say to me. The language of catfights is universal.

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