Page 10 of Poisoned Roses

I call Simeon, otherwise known as my right arm and issue my instructions carefully.

“I need twenty-four-hour surveillance on Tatiana Pavlov. Somebody watching her apartment and cameras set up in the building. Find out who she sees, who she has ever met and all you can on any ex boyfriends. I want her life history from the minute she was conceived until now.”

“Anything else?”

“Hit every florist in town and find the one who sends a bouquet of white roses with one black one in the center to Tatiana after every performance. It may be a regular order and I want their contact details.”

“Consider it done.”

“While you’re at it, look into the Bolshoi. I want intel on every person who works there—has worked there from the top to the bottom.”

“And you want it by the morning, I suppose.”

His dry humor isn’t lost on me because Simeon is my biggest critic, which is why he has lasted so long. I don’t need a yes man who is unafraid to speak his mind, and I chuckle softly. “Of course.”

His low ‘fuck’ leaves a smile on my face as I cut the call, certain most of what I have requested will be in my inbox when I wake and as I lean back, I think of the woman I left behind. Tatiana Pavlov, soon to be Tatiana Romanov.

Fuck my privileged, dangerous life.

My morning is spentlike any other. I wake in my penthouse in Moscow. If it’s not here, it’s in my suite of rooms at The Romanov mansion. I alternate between the two, preferring my own company more than my family’s but I recognize the need to be in both places.

I don’t shower and head straight to my home gym and spend the next hour working out, cleansing my mind and priming it for the day ahead. I like to keep in shape, both in body and mind, and find it releases endorphins that sharpen my attention for the day ahead.

I play classical music loudly from the speakers and I am never disturbed as I take one hour of personal time for myself.

Then I head to my indoor pool where I do fifty laps before finally showering and heading to my private dining room, where my personal chef serves a breakfast designed for my needs. As I eat, I catch up with current and world affairs as well as any texts or messages from my family.

By eight am I am seated at my desk and turn my computer on, ready to answer the emails that have come in through the night.

I have a meticulous schedule that never deviates and my personal assistant, Suzannah, is both efficient and invisible, which is how I prefer my staff.

True to his word, Simeon has amassed quite the history on my new fiancée and as I study the notes, I read about a life that is soulless.

She was born into poverty and her parents scraped by, working three jobs each just to live. Her mother, Theresa,worked cleaning at a small dance studio and she used her wages to pay for Tatiana to study there from a very early age.

The woman who ran it was considered cruel and hard and there are many accompanying reports of instances when parents complained of her methods and many children were sent to the local hospital with injuries that could only have been inflicted by someone else.

Tatiana herself was admitted with a broken arm and concussion and my anger grows the more I read.

Her story is not a happy one.

Her father died from sepsis when he tore a hole in his leg working heavy machinery and without him they had even less to live on. Theresa was forced to work for a man who I know of only too well, and I’m guessing her nights spent at the Jagged Edge destroyed what was left of her soul.

However, it appears that Tatiana knew nothing of the sacrifices her mother made for her and progressed to win a scholarship at the Bolshoi, where she danced her way to the top of a sinister pile and has now discovered that fame does indeed come at a price.

I study the names of everyone associated with her throughout her life, noting she had few friends and the ones she had were fellow ballerinas.

There are no reports of men in her life, which is strangely satisfying to know, although astonishing given the attention she commands.

My phone rings as I work through the list and I huff, “Simeon.”

“The florists.” Is all he says and I growl, “Go on.”

“It appears there is no regular order. There are several reported sales of bouquets, all of which are the same design, but the customer always ordered over the phone and paid with a credit card.”

“In the name of?” I add and I can imagine his frustrated expression as he huffs, “John Doe.”

“Fuck!”

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