Page 153 of Dirty Grovel

No such luck.

I look back at the pink number. “It’s the only dress that will cover my knees and keep my cleavage in check.”

“Then we have a winner!” Faye declares with the fakest enthusiasm I’ve ever seen. “Go and change. I’ll pick out a pair of heels for you to wear.”

By the time I put on the dress and stumble out of the bathroom, Faye has disappeared. The only trace of her is the pair of black Prada heels placed beside the door.

I slip them on quickly and head downstairs.

The dress is tighter than I expected, so it takes me a minute to maneuver the staircase. As I clomp to the front door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the ten-foot mirrors that flank the foyer.

“Oh, fucking hell.”

So much for subdued and subtle. That’s how it translated on the hanger.

But on me? It reads “strip club cocktail waitress.”

The dress is shorter than I expected, the hemline hitting just above my knees. And the scooped neckline only highlights my cleavage, which, thanks to how tight the dress is, has been pushed up to my chin.

I’m contemplating running back upstairs and changing again, when I hear the horn blast from the driveway.

With sweat pebbling my forehead, I rush into the driveway where Faye is already waiting in the silver Audi.

It takes a serious amount of skill to get into the passenger’s seat. Between my heels, my baby bump, and my boobs threatening to jump out of my bodice, I’m winded by the time I’m buckled in.

“You look great,” Faye compliments as I reach for my seatbelt.

“Don’t lie to me. I look like a hooker going to church to repent.” Faye snorts so hard and I groan. “See? You can’t even deny it.”

“That reaction was in no way agreement.”

“I beg to differ.” I smooth out my skirts, trying to pull it down a little. “I’m dressed completely inappropriately and now, I’m going to bring shame and dishonor on the whole family.”

“Will you stop? You’re being dramatic.”

I wring my hands together the whole drive there. All too soon, we arrive at the venue—the solemn and ever so dignified cathedral where Boris’s body will be laid to rest tomorrow.

My throat is closing up as Faye and I exit the Audi and make for the arched entrance that’s flanked by important-looking guests.

None of whom are dressed in any shade of pink.

None of whom are exposing an inappropriate amount of skin.

All of whom can walk perfectly well in their designer heels.

Why the hell hadn’t I thought to bring a shawl, at the very least?

The cathedral looms in front of me like judgment incarnate. I take the stairs slowly, because I’m terrified of tripping.

Once we’re inside, my heelsclick-clackdown the aisle, a staccato rhythm of failure as dozens of black-clad mourners turn to stare.

Their lips purse when they see me. Eyes tighten. Whispers break out.

Their disapproval feels like a physical weight, like a big, flat palm pressing me down into the crust of the earth.

The only person who doesn’t look at me is Oksana.

But only because it’s clear that she can’t bear to.

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