Page 66 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Well, it’s true!” Mario bursts out defiantly. “It’s not as if Joy’s entire existence will be lived out in the public—so a few fun purchases won’t hurt!”

Without any noise at all, Ludmil appears again, his bald head tilted at Mario, while he scratches a half-dozing Chowder under the chin. “Mr. Vaknin already has apparel for Joy to wear at home. It is public events for which we are here to purchase.”

Which is news to me. Obviously, that super-sexy bedroom slip thing I had on earlier today was nice. So soft the touch I almost fainted.

But as far as I’m concerned, it’s ten different shades of weird that my fake husband already has an entire ‘at-home’ wardrobe picked out for me. Although maybe Ludmil just said that to shut Mario up.

Not that it’s working. Mario’s mouth is already halfway open with his next retort.

“The tank,” Ludmil interrupts before Mario can say anything, then turns on his heel to leave, wiggling his fingers above the crown of his head like a shark’s fin.

Mario’s paunchy cheeks go from red to white in horror.

“Tank?” I ask him, confused.

“Never you mind,” he grumbles. “It’s just a rumor. A stupid rumor!”

* * *

Next up is Aurea Spa, complete with golden Grecian pillars, vaguely Grecian-looking attendants, Greek harp music, and more over-the-top fawning:

“Oh, Ms. Smith, you are just glowing! But of course, you have to see yourself after our açai healing purity masks. Oh my God, you won’t be able to be-lieve the difference!”

As the bony woman’s eyes goggle with her words, I swallow back my oncoming response and muster up all my self-control.No, Joy,I think to myself,you can’t tell her, ‘Thanks, I went on a homeless detox, and the results were just amazeballs!’

“Bathroom?” I ask her instead, and escape in the direction she points.

Inside, I lock the door and turn to the gold-framed mirror. I tap my cheek skeptically. Hm. If this is what you called ‘glowing skin,’ then I’d hate to see what dull looks like.

And yet… I stare at myself. I do look the same, right?

My eyes scan from one familiar feature—slightly close-set eyes—to another—upturned nose that I’ve always suspected is a bit crooked. But I can’t find it. Where the difference is.

Maybe there isn’t a glow, but there’s something else. Something like hope or security making me look—almost, maybe—like I could be happy.

I turn away from the mirror. It’s not real. None of this—the fawning, the shopping, the clothes. I’m not a different person, not any different from before.

Only, I am. I can feel it somewhere inside me, something hard and formed and certain.

Maybe all this is still just some elaborate act I’m getting the hang of. Maybe—no, definitely—I still have no idea what I’m doing, or if I’ve done the right thing. But the difference is that now I’m the kind of person who tries to save herself, who will do anything to do it. The kind who has hope that things can get better. For herself. For her mom.

And—I can see it in the foreign reflection staring back at me from the gold-framed mirror—that counts for something.

I exhale, set my shoulders, then tilt my chin. It’s go time.

Back outside, Ludmil is seated off in some shadowy corner on his phone with Chowder under his chair, and Mario is clapping like a kid who just got a Batman blow-up castle for his birthday.

“You’ll see!” he’s enthusing, “Your skin after this treatment will be just divine! And the açai smell, ugh, so good! Not to mention the cleansing effects of the cucumber and mango combination.”

If Aurea Spa isn’t already paying him a commission, they should.

Although, minutes later, I’m eating my words, and wishing I could eat my face mask. As the bony woman massages in the açai paste, the other attendant is massaging the rest of me with an expert touch. I’m in a pleasure heaven, too zoned out to make out what the first one is saying. Something about organic … healthy … açai… Yeah, I get it, açai is heaven-sent, et cetera.

But the main thing is how spot-on Mario was about the face-mask smell. Like it’s the yummiest smoothie times a thousand. It being nearly up my nose isn’t helping my rumbling tummy.

And I mean, it’s organic, and all-natural, right? So would it really hurt if I just took a little taste… After a few minutes and the massaging stops, I creak open a goopy eye to confirm the coast is clear—then swipe some off my neck.

I lick it off my pointer finger and sigh. Mmmm—why waste something that tastes this good on a freaking face mask?! I’m seriously tempted to swipe the rest off and have me a chow-down, but something tells me that that isn’t exactly normal ‘politician wife’ behavior.

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