Page 60 of Bloody Lace

“He can’t tell me who to go to lunch with.”

“He can do whatever he wants.” Gus looks straight ahead, at the elevator doors.

A chill runs through me at that.He can do whatever he wants.Dimitri has a kind of power that I’ve never imagined another person having. “He can do whatever he wants with his Bratva,” I murmur stiffly. “Not me.”

Gus chuckles. “Mrs. Yashkova, you have no idea what the Bratva even is.”

He probably shouldn’t talk to me like that, but I appreciate his cando. And he’s right. I don’t understand what this crime family is that Dimitri runs. It’s like another world, and it’s one that I want to be able to walk away from when the time comes.

That’s also the second time in the last ten minutes that I’ve heard Dimitri’s last name tacked onto mine. If I’m being honest with myself, I didn’t mind the way it sounds. Especially when Dimitri said it.

Evelyn Yashkova. There’s a ring to it, for sure. But I’ll be the one to decide when I change my last name.

We head out into the cold, Gus opening the back door of the car for me before sliding into the passenger’s seat. I rub my hands together, letting the warmth of the interior sink into me as I lean back against the leather seat and try to calm my nerves.

I felt like there was something off about Nicci’s invitation, too. I don’t run in the same kind of circles she does—or at least I didn’t, before my engagement and marriage to Dimitri, but I’ve encountered plenty of women like her in my business as a fashion designer and sewist. They’re usually self-centered and spoiled, and quick to blame others for anything that goes wrong. I can’t count the number of clients who have been upset with a detail that they claimed was “missed”, or done incorrectly, when I followed their instructions and was never told what they actually wanted. But it’s still always somehow my fault.

Nicci struck me as that kind of woman. Not one who admits to personal failings or apologizes. But I could be wrong. And I’m honestly curious about the woman who was supposed to marry Dimitri before me, who he wanted to get away from so badly that he was willing to spend an insane amount of money on rebuilding my shop and commit to years of celibacy until our eventual divorce.

Although, we haven’t been doing great in the celibacy department.

My skin tingles with the memory of what we did last night. The fact that Dimitri was willing to get me off and leave himself unfinished has lingered in my head. I’ve never known a man to be selfless with pleasure before. Usually, in my experience, they barely care if their partner comes at all. It feels like it means something, that he was more concerned with my pleasure than his.

It doesn’t mean anything, you idiot,I tell myself as the car turns down the street that leads to the bistro I’m meeting Nicci at. It means he’s a good lover, but it doesn’tmeananything for our greater relationship. And I need to remember that.

We don’thavea relationship. Not a real one. Even if we fight like a married couple and fuck like we’re having an affair, none of it is real. And it’s going to end, sooner or later.

No matter how real it feels when he’s inside of me.

That can’t happen again.Not sex, and not any of the very tempting alternatives he’s offered that won’t result in pregnancy. Letting him make me come in other ways might not tie me to him with a child, but itwilltie me to him in ways that aren’t so easily broken, either.

Dimtri’s heart might not be on the line, but mine is. I know myself. And I know that as much as he pisses me off, there’s things about him that I could fall for, too. His generosity. His willingness to defend me. The way he makes me feel safe. The way that sometimes, when his guard drops just a little, I can see a part of him that I think might come out, if he had someone who loved him.

He’s a good man, deep down. An honorable one. And even if those words don’t quite line up in my head with someone who commits the kind of violence he does, I’m getting the idea that in his world, he’s a better man than most.

The car pulls up to the curb, and Gus gets out as the driver comes around to open my door. I step out, tugging my coat around me, and walk towards the front door of the cute little bistro that Nicci chose for our lunch.

“I’m meeting Ms. Armand,” I tell the petite, perky hostess who is standing at the front, and she smiles, picking up a menu and rolled silverware and leading me back into the small, fragrant restaurant.

It’s all dark wood and iron, with fresh greenery everywhere, laced with white twinkle lights and garlands for the season, a large Christmas tree near the bar at the back, all decorated in white and gold and silver. I see Nicci sitting at a table along the far wall, her blonde hair in a smooth twist at the back of her head, her fox-like features accented with soft makeup. She’s wearing a cashmere wrap sweater in a soft dove grey and jeans, sapphire studs in her ears and a few rings dotting her fingers that probably each cost as much as my rent for a year. She has that look of understated wealth that very rich women have, and I remind myself that regardless of who I used to be, now I’m Dimitri’s wife. I can’t let her run over me.

Nicci smiles as I sit down, but I notice that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s tension in her face, although that doesn’t necessarily mean anything is wrong. “Evelyn,” she says, her voice slightly accented with a hint of French. “I’m glad you came.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” I guess that’s a fair assumption. Even though I told her I would, I can imagine plenty of women might decide to ghost a lunch date with their husband’s ex.

Nicci shrugs. “I thought you might not. Or that Dimitri might not let you come.”

“He doesn’t tell me what to do.” The words come out snappishly enough that it’s clear that he tried, and I wish I did abetter job of keeping a poker face. Especially when I see a slight, smirking tilt to Nicci’s lips.

“Of course not,” she says smoothly. “Anyway, I’m grateful you agreed to meet me.”

“Why?” I blurt out. “I know you said you wanted to apologize, but—” I break off, because there’s no real polite way to saybut you don’t really seem like the type.

“We’ll talk about that once we have some wine.” That smile lingers on her lips. “I ordered a bottle of red. Malbec. I hope that’s alright—I don’t know if you have preferences in wine. And an appetizer.”

Her tone clearly insinuates that she doesn’t think I’m sophisticated enough to have a preference in wine, and unfortunately, she’s right. I know I like red better than white, and that’s it. But I just smile, nodding agreeably.

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

---