Page 154 of Dirty Grovel

I do my best to make eye contact, if only to mouth an apology. She had, after all, taken the trouble to hand-deliver a beautiful dress for me. And I’d gone and ruined it with my carelessness and ineptitude.

She may not be the nicest or most welcoming mother-in-law, but even I will concede that, in this case, she deserves an apology.

But she must have some sort of built-in radar, because every time I so much as glance her way, she turns away automatically, as though my mere presence is an affront to polite society.

Her reaction seems to signal to every other mourner present that I ampersona non grata. The entire crowd weaves around me as though we’re magnets with the same poles.

I endure exactly twenty minutes of humiliation before my cheeks start to flush scarlet and tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes.

I stop looking for Oleg in the crowd. I’m starting to think it’s a good thing he hasn’t seen me yet.

I tell myself that retreat is the only option. So, instead of sticking it out, I slink to the back of the cathedral and slip out one of the smaller doors, a coward in salmon.

I manage to cajole an idle Bratva driver into taking me back to the house. Only when we’re on the road, hauling ass away from the imposing cathedral, do I text Faye to let her know that I left.

Once I’m back home, I peel off the dress, taking care not to rip this one, too.

But instead of feeling better, I feel ten times worse.

Should I have left like I did? Surely Oleg won’t care.

I’m not even technically his wife yet. More like an incubator for his heir. Something he’s probably started to regret in the last few days.

The crash of the front door distracts me from the pity party I’m throwing myself.

Angry voices echo through the house, luring me from the safety of my bedroom, towards the staircase.

The blood turns to ice in my veins when I see Oleg stomping through the foyer, followed by Oksana, her heels striking the wood hard and sharp.

Their faces are identical masks of anger and frustration.

And I have a very good feeling that I’m the reason why.

49

SUTTON

I don’t understand a damn word of what they’re saying.

But I don’t have to understand to be afraid.

Oksana’s icy alto dances around Oleg’s rough baritone. It’s like glass forming and shattering again and again as they argue.

My skin crawls with anxiety as I lean forward on the staircase, listening, trembling.

Ironically, it’s Oksana who indulges me as she switches into acid-drenched English.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she calls to Oleg’s back as he walks away from her.

“Somewhere in this house where I can’t hear your fucking voice.”

He charges out of the foyer and Oksana’s fingers curl into claws that look like they could gouge a man’s eyes out before she goes striding after him.

Ignoring the permanent shiver running up my spine, I tiptoe down the stairs and follow their raised voices into the kitchen.

Both are standing with their backs to me, so I take the opportunity to shuffle fast into the pantry where the angled slats give me a view of the kitchen without revealing my presence.

Oleg spins around with a tumbler of vodka clutched in his hand. The crystalline liquid sloshes around wildly, spilling over the lip as Oleg gestures at his mother.

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