Page 52 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

Elena approaches the dresses cautiously, running her fingers over the expensive fabric. “These must have cost a fortune.”

“Money is irrelevant. What matters is that you look the part tonight.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her. “Thesepeople will be scrutinizing you and looking for weaknesses. You need to appear confident and comfortable in luxury.”

She lifts the emerald dress, holding it against her body. The color makes her skin glow. “I don’t know if I can pull this off, Damir. I’m not used to this world.”

“You underestimate yourself.” I step closer, taking the dress from her hands and holding it up to her shoulders. “You’re intelligent, beautiful, and strong. You’ll adapt.”

Our gazes meet, and for a moment, I see uncertainty in hers that slowly morphs to the determination I’ve come to admire. “What time is the gala?”

“Eight o’clock. We’ll leave at seven-thirty.” I hand her the midnight blue dress, which is my favorite. “A team will be here at five to help you prepare. Hair, makeup, or whatever you need.”

She nods, tightening her fingers on the fabric. “And what exactly am I supposed to do at this gala? Besides look pretty on your arm?”

“Be charming. Engage in small talk. Dance with me.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. “And watch. Listen. These people will speak more freely around a beautiful woman they underestimate.”

“You want me to spy for you.”

“I want you to be my eyes and ears in places I can’t access.” I drop my hand. “Women’s restrooms. Conversations between wives. Places where men like me aren’t welcome.”

She considers this, her expression thoughtful. “I can do that.”

“I know you can.” I step back, giving her space. “Try on the dresses, especially the blue one. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

As I turn to leave, she calls after me. “Damir?”

I pause, looking back at her.

“Thank you for telling me about your childhood. About Irina.” Her eyes are soft with compassion. “It helps me understand you better.”

I nod once, unsure how to respond to her gratitude. No one has ever thanked me for revealing my vulnerabilities before. “Try on the dresses, Elena,” I say again, and close the door behind me.

15

Elena

Isit perfectly still as the hairstylist works her magic, transforming my usually practical ponytail into an elegant updo with soft tendrils framing my face. The woman’s nimble fingers move with practiced precision, securing each strand with tiny pins that disappear into my dark hair.

“You have beautiful thickness to work with,” she says, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Most women would kill for this natural volume.”

I smile politely, still not entirely comfortable with this level of pampering. Three professionals Damir arranged have taken over the guest bedroom of his penthouse, converting it into a makeshift salon.

The makeup artist waits patiently nearby, organizing her impressive collection of products, while the manicurist puts the finishing touches on my freshly painted nails—a deep navy that will complement the gown Damir selected after I tried on all three before asking him to pick. I’m still not used to this.

“Almost done,” murmurs the hairstylist, spraying a light mist over my completed style.

The makeup artist steps forward next, studying my face with professional scrutiny. “You have gorgeous bone structure. We’ll keep it natural but elegant. Just perfect for a governor’s gala.”

I nod, trying to relax as she applies primer to my skin. This entire experience feels surreal, like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. Two months ago, I was a broke medical student eating ramen in my tiny apartment after Casey ripped me off. Now I’m being primped and polished to attend a high-society event as the wife of Damir Antonov, a man who commands respect with a single glance.

“Look up for me,” says the makeup artist when it’s her turn a few minutes later, so she can apply mascara to my lashes.

An hour later, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom now and barely recognize myself. The midnight blue gown Damir selected fits perfectly, hugging my curves before flowing gracefully to the floor. The neckline dips just low enough to be elegant without being inappropriate, and the back features an intricate pattern of beading that catches the light with every movement.

The diamond necklace and matching earrings he provided rest against my skin, their weight unfamiliar but not unpleasant. I’ve never worn anything so expensive in my life, and the thought makes me nervous about the evening ahead.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. “Come in,” I call, turning toward the door.

Damir enters, already dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that accentuates his broad shoulders and tall frame. Hestops abruptly when he sees me, his usual composed expression faltering for a brief moment. His lips part but no words emerge.

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