Page 114 of 10 Days to Ruin

When the first circuit is completed, Yvonne looks at me. “Where would you like to begin, Mrs.— Pardon me, Ms. Ariel?”

I purse my lips and look around. Then I stroll toward a rack of beaded gowns, conveniently located within earshot of Sasha. “That one first,” I say, pointing at a bruised purple evening gown with a ten-foot long train. “And the silver heels—no, the ones with the emerald straps. Actually,allthe straps. Oh, and that kangaroo leather bag shaped like a swan. That’ll be perfect.”

Yvonne looks at me, then at Sasha.

Sasha looks at Yvonne, then away.

I pointedly look at no one.

“Whatever she wants,” Sasha rumbles at last. He lights a cigarette by the three-way mirror. “It all goes on my account.”

I grit my teeth.Let’s see how deep those pockets run.

It’s an absolute shitshow from then on. A never-ending clusterfuck ofthisandthatandthree of those, please.Chinchilla fur romper. Diamond-encrusted wedges. A sable stole that makes a PETA activist somewhere wake up from a dead sleep with their heart racing.

Sasha doesn’t so much as bat an eye.

Every item goes up in front of him for perusal. I make sure the price tags are blindingly obvious, and I ask Yvonne again and again to announce as loud as she can what our running total is. We fly past five figures, past six, but even as two commas come into play, Sasha remains utterly unfazed. He takes a seat in an upholstered throne in the middle of the store. At one point, Yvonne approaches him. “This is quite a lot of items, Mr. Ozerov. Perhaps you’d like to?—?”

“There was nothing ambiguous about ‘whatever she wants,’” he snarls. “Whatever. She. Wants.”

I redouble my efforts. For fuck’s sake, all I want is to see the faintest hint of the human I know is inside of him. This blank detachment is the worst face he could possibly present. I’m dying to change it in any way I can.

And yes, I’d prefer the sweet Sasha, the Sasha who dotes on me, who laughs with me, who calls meptichkain that rumbling bass voice that sounds like summer heat lightning. But if he won’t give me that, I’ll reach for the button I do know how to press.

Piss.

Him.

Off.

Four hours in, though, my plan is backfiring spectacularly. I’ve tried on another half a dozen ball gowns, twenty-plus pairs of progressively obscene stilettos, and a ruby-studded choker that made the security guard spasm and drool. Sasha watches it all from his velvet chair, legs splayed, smoke curling from his lips—unfazed as I morph from Golden Age starlet to Balkan trophy wife and back again.

Until I reach for the lingerie display.

Then, at last, his fingers go still.

“Ah!” Yvonne says when she sees where my attention has gone. “I admire your taste. Our newest collection just arrived.”

I yank a scrap of crimson mesh from the rack. “This. And the leather harness. Oh,especiallythe harness.”

Sasha’s lighter clicks. I look at him and raise a questioning brow. “If you like,” is all he says.

My frown curdles. That’s progress—but I wantmore.

So I shrug. “I guess we won’t know until I try it on, will we?”

Then, without waiting for his reaction, I turn and embark for the dressing rooms.

But unlike every other item I’ve tried on today, this one gives me pause. Inside the stall, I hold it up over my sweats. There’s not much of it, all things considered. Red lace panties that loop over the hips, black leather garters that sit high on the thighs, all of it running up to connect to a complex maze of interwoven black leather straps that in turn flows into a leather collar with a tiny padlock at the throat.

It’s outrageous. It’s scandalous. It’s gonna make Sasha go berserk.

Still, I hesitate. When I wore that slutty bikini to the spa, all I had in mind was to rile him up to break him down. It was pure and simple motivation. All day today, I’ve been telling myself that I’m right back on that same agenda.

But am I? Is itrilingthat I’m after, like I was just a few days ago?

I know without even having to risk a glance at my own embarrassed face in the mirror that it’s not that. Not anymore.

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