Page 51 of Beautiful Cruelty

Lenka watches me carefully. "You know what you're doing?"

"Trust me," I say with a small smile. "Fashion design was my major before..." I trail off, not wanting to explain about Mom's illness. "Let's just say I know my way around a needle and thread."

Back in my room, I head straight for the closet. My fingers trail over the luxurious fabrics until I find it—the midnight blue dress that first caught my eye. The silk charmeuse flows like water through my hands as I hold it against myself in front of the mirror.

I start placing pins along the bodice where it needs taking in. The bust needs adjustment, and the waist could be more fitted. The hem should sit just above my knee instead of mid-calf.

As I work, everything else fades away. No more thoughts about Vadim. No more worrying about forced marriages or bratvas. Just fabric and pins and the quiet satisfaction of making something beautiful fit perfectly.

My hands remember every movement, every technique I learned in school. It's like muscle memory. Knowing exactly where to place each pin, how much fabric to take in, and which seams to adjust.

Without realizing it, I start humming "Moon River." Mom and I used to hum it together when I was little. She'd sit with me for hours, helping me make patterns and offering suggestions. The melody flows naturally as my fingers work, and for a moment I can almost hear her voice harmonizing with mine.

A peace settles over me that I haven't felt in years. This is what I was meant to do. Not catering, not pretending to be a bratva boss's wife: but creating something beautiful.

Something mine.

Holding the dress up one more time and satisfied with my plans, I take a pair of scissors to it and start to cut.

Hours later,I set down my needle with a satisfied sigh. My fingers trace the careful pleating I added at the waist of the midnight blue dress—a detail that wasn't there before but adds just the right touch of sophistication. The bodice still needs work though. I've pinned it differently three times, but haven't quite achieved the perfect fit for myself yet.

A knock at the door interrupts my concentration, and I look up in surprise to see that night has fallen.

"Come in," I call out, as I adjust another pin.

"Ms. McKinney, Vadim Petrovich is requesting your presence for dinner this evening."

"I'm in the middle of something." My head snaps up. "I'd prefer to eat here, if it's all the same."

"It is not," Lenka says firmly. "Nor is it negotiable."

"I'm busy," I gesture at the dress. "Besides, I'm hardly dressed for a formal dinner." I'm still wearing the clothes I arrived in, now wrinkled from sitting cross-legged on the floor while sewing. "And I'm not done with my alterations."

"That is why I brought these." Lenka opens a garment bag to reveal a deep emerald cocktail dress and matching heels. "Vadim Petrovich insists on your company."

My jaw clenches. Of course he does. He's probably been watching me work all day through that damn camera, planning this moment when he can finally see me change.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will be forced to help you dress." Lenka's tone makes it clear she'd rather not resort to that.

I glance between the emerald dress and my half-finished alterations. The midnight blue silk seems to mock me now—a reminder that everything beautiful in this place comes with strings attached.

“Alright,” I say, setting down my pins. "Give me fifteen minutes."

I look at Lenka, but she makes no move to leave.

Fine.

Turning my back to Lenka, I slip out of my clothes. My blouse pools at my feet, and is soon joined by my pants. I run my fingers along the seams of the emerald dress, examining the construction. No manufacturer's tag, just a simple "Svoboda" label. The stitching is immaculate, the kind of detailed work that only comes from custom tailoring.

Taking a deep breath, I step into it. The silk slides against my skin, cool as rain, and settles perfectly around my curves. No pinching, no awkward bunching—it fits like it was made for me.

Didhe have this made for me? When?

The matching heels gleam temptingly, but I leave them in their box. My ankle throbs at the mere thought of trying to walk in them. Besides, I need something to show him that he can't just control everything that I do.

I need something that reminds both him and myself that I'm still me.

---