Page 101 of Dirty Grovel

Oksana’s eyes narrow. I wonder if I’ve just eviscerated the fragile harmony that exists between us since Oleg dropped the engagement news when we docked in Palm Beach.

Then, to my surprise, she exhales and deflates. “Very well. We’ll leave this room as it is for now. Shall we move on to the other bedrooms?”

It’s not really a question. But after the emotional roller coaster of the boat journey here, and this morning’s adventure traipsing over every square inch of this house, I’m exhausted. No longer in the mood to go where I’m told and do as instructed.

“Actually,” I pipe up, “I’d like to tackle those rooms on my own. Later.” Oksana turns in the hallway to look at me again, her face already well on its way to scrunching into her trademark sneer, so I hurry to add, “There is something I want your help with. The entertaining spaces—the living and dining rooms—I need to know how to decorate them. I don’t have a clue where to start. And I don’t want Oleg to be disappointed.”

She keeps squinting for a few seconds longer before she finds whatever proof of sincerity she was looking for in my face. Only then does she nod. “Once I’m done with those spaces, he’ll have no reason to be.” She gives me a pleased smile. “You’re smart to start there. Entertaining is going to be an integral part of your life. And your marriage.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the wife of thepakhan, Sutton. That comes with hefty responsibilities. You may think that there’s nothing to being a hostess, but in fact, it’s a delicate juggling act. How you welcome your guests will set the tone for the entire night. It’ll either make them feel safe and comfortable or distant and mistrusting. Youneed to draw them in, earn their trust subliminally. You need to make them feel like more than just guests, more than just friends. They need to feel like family.”

There’s a certain longing in her voice that tells me that maybe a part of her misses being the Bratva wife, the gracious hostess.

“How many parties did you host when you were in this seat?”

“Ha! Hundreds.”

The thought of hundreds of nights spent refilling the drinks of men like Drew makes my stomach flip. “Did you really?”

“Oh, yes. And you will have to do the same, Sutton. In fact, there are several events coming up that will fall on your shoulders to plan.”

I’m starting to feel nauseous. I do my best to breathe through the growing panic. “Did it come naturally to you?”

“It should have. My parents hosted a lot. My mother ran many charities and my father had a lot of business dinners and parties. This lifestyle was always familiar to me. And still, I wasn’t accepted into the Pavlov family with open arms.”

“Why not?”

Her gaze floats over to one of the recessed windows that overlook the garden. At first glance, there’s not a damn thing wrong with it.

But I know enough to know that she’s examining the claw marks in the bottom righthand side of the frame. Clearly, the previous family had pets.

“A Bratva wife is a job in its own right,” Oksana explains in a hushed murmur. “I was Russian, I was from a wealthy family, Iwas a Pavlova. On paper, it seemed perfect. But I still didn’t have therightconnections. Bogdan’s parents didn’t think I would have what it takes.”

“But you proved them wrong.”

“I made many mistakes first,” she explains, a touch of bitterness edging into her voice. “And I didn’t have anyone to rely on. You, thankfully, have me.”

I’m oddly touched by that. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Oksana,” I say honestly. “But I fear that I might.”

She raises her eyebrows. I’m not sure if she’s agreeing with me or if she’s taken back by my vulnerable admission. “Don’t waste time with fear, Sutton. It’s useless. Focus on what you can learn. If you pay attention and learn fast, there might still be hope for you yet.”

With that, she marches into the next room. I find myself trailing behind her, oddly curious about her story and her life.

“So, you and… Oleg’s dad, I’m assuming it wasn’t an arranged marriage?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

She doesn’t seem keen to divulge any more, but I can’t help myself. Now that I’ve got her talking, I can’t seem to stop myself.

“What happened?”

Oksana fusses with a piece of crown molding. “That’s a very personal question.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I just?—”

“Long story short,” she interrupts in a clipped voice, “we were very young when we married. We were naïve and foolish enough to believe that we would love each other forever. We didn’t.”

---