Page 59 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“I know what dinner is,” I snap back. “Is this dinner with him?”

“Of course,” Yulia says with a tolerant smile. “Who else?”

“But why?”

“That is a question you’ll have to ask him,” she says. “I’m just here to deliver some clothes.”

I glance towards the newly laden racks in the closet. I don’t want to look too interested, but I literally cannot remember the last time I bought new clothes for myself and the thought alone has me giddy.

Focus, Liv.

“Do you really think you can make me excited for this dinner just by bringing me new clothes? Are you his spin doctor or something?”

“I’m not trying to spin anything. I just…” Her smile falls slightly. For a millisecond, I can peek once again behind the perfectly crafted façade. “I do feel bad that you’re forced to be here. And I… I don’t want you to think you don’t have a friend in this house.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is that what you are to me? My friend?”

“I can be a shoulder to lean on. Someone to confide in. Whatever you need.”

“Does Aleks know you’re making this offer?”

She sighs. “No. He wouldn’t approve.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“So maybe we should… keep it just between us?” she asks hopefully.

Yulia is the only one in this entire house who’s shown me the slightest bit of kindness. I’d be a fool to alienate the one person who might have a conscience in this place.

So I force a smile to my face. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” she says, relief flooding her features. “Now, how about you come take a look at the clothes I picked out for you?”

Despite our tentative truce, I feel a twinge of discomfort as I follow her into the walk-in closet.

She hits a hidden switch on the wall and an embedded lighting system comes to life along every shelf and rack. It’s a rainbow of colors and cuts. Dresses—evening, cocktail, casual—along with pants, blouses, skirts, coats. Jeans and tees, camis and leggings. A whole separate annex is devoted entirely to shoes, each pair lit by a soft spotlight from above. I’m amazed by how quickly and neatly the maids were able to arrange everything.

I run my fingers over the fabric. Silk, cashmere, chiffon, brocade. But the more I examine the outfits she’s brought for me, I can’t help noticing that none of them feel like me.

“Well, what do you think?”

I plaster a smile onto my face before I turn to look at her. “Everything here is gorgeous, Yulia. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But… well, um… none of them will suit me.”

“You are a size eight, aren’t you?”

“I… yeah, I am—”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean, look at me,” I say, gesturing to my body. I’m currently wearing jeans and a hoodie that’s entirely too big for me. “This is my style.”

“Style?” Yulia repeats, looking positively mortified. “That’s not a style at all, Olivia.”

“Jeans and hoodies are too a style.”

“Maybe if you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Hey!”

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