Page 37 of Cashmere Cruelty

“I’m not lying, if that’s what you’re implying.” I don’t grit my teeth, nor do I yell—I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. But I’m not going to take this lying down, either.

Insultme? Fine. Maybe I deserved it.

But insultmy baby?

Not on my watch,kalinka.

“Maybe not,” Petra concedes. “But the timing sure is interesting.”

“I’m not—” I start, but my words are cut short.

Because suddenly, Petra’s hand is twisting mine. Her handshake now feels like a vise—tighter,tighter.

I press my lips together, refusing to make a sound.Hurt me all you want. I promise you one thing: I’ve felt worse.

“All I care about,” she enunciates, her face now uncomfortably close to mine, “is my dream. And if you ever get in the way again,I’ll make sure your littlekomukgrows up calling every single nanny ‘Mama.’ Have I made myself clear?”

I’ve never wanted to hit someone this bad. Scratch that—I’ve never wanted tokillsomeone this bad.

One day into this nightmare and I’m already homicidal.

“Crystal,” I grit out.

Only then does Petra finally let go.

“Splendid!” She claps, as if that settles that. “I’ll leave you to unpack, then. Just don’t throw out the boxes, ‘mkay?” she winks. “You never know when you might need them again.”

With that, she sashays out the door, her bodyguards trailing after her.

As soon as she’s gone, I shake out my hand. “Ow,” I mutter. “Thathurt, bitch.”

Alone, I look around the room again. The sealed boxes, the cold countertops, the emptiness. And, not for the first time, I wonder…

Just what the hell did I get myself into?

11

MATVEY

“Having fun?”

Petra turns to me with a surprised look. “My, my, if it isn’t the runaway groom,” she croons in Russian. The automatic doors of the Jupiter Hotel whirr shut behind her back. On each side of her, Petra’s bodyguards glare at me in unison. “What brings you here, fiancé? Come to guard the princess’s tower in person?”

I ball up my fists. “I’m not in the mood for your games. What the hell are you doing here?”

She gives me an enigmatic half-smile. Who does she think she is, the fuckingMona Lisa? “Just popped by to compliment the chef. Those salmon tarts? Delicious. Tried to bribe the recipe out of him, but he wouldn’t stop shaking long enough to speak.”

Note to self: give Rowan a raise.

“That’s it?” I sigh. “Cut the shit, Petra. I know you were at the penthouse just now.”

A light chuckle. “What, caught me on those pricey cameras of yours? Or did a little bird whose name rhymes with Trisha sing a pretty song in your ear?”

I step closer to her. Her bodyguards tense, but I don’t give a shit. I’m a way faster draw than either of them. “If you harassed her in any way?—”

“Oh, ‘harass’is such an ugly word.” Petra scoffs theatrically. “Please. What’s a little girl talk between friends?”

“She’s not your ‘friend.’”

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