Page 22 of The Payback

I head into the closet and strip out of the shirt I’ve been wearing all night. Looking at the drawers in the centre of my walk-in space, I open the lingerie drawer I found last night. Making a snap decision, I dress and take a picture in the full-length mirror.

The photo hovers above his newest text. My phone blocks my face, but my body is fully displayed in racy white lace lingerie. The bralette sits low, just above my straining nipples, and the panties are barely more than a scrap of lace.

Husband:Be careful you don’t start things you can’t finish, dear wife.

Me:I never start things I don’t intend to finish.

Husband:Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I have to go. Be good.

A smile curls my lips as I imagine him sneaking peeks at the photo all day. His abruptness last night after we came on each other’s tongues threw me for a loop. But maybe it was a good thing to stop before it escalated.

And making his life easier just doesn’t seem like something I would do, so slutty picture it is. Belatedly, I realise this isn’t the best move for my cover if anyone else sees it, but with the way Dimitri keeps himself so separated from everyone else, I doubt others get glimpses of his phone.

For so goddamn long, I’d lost this part of myself. I love my daughter, and the thought of not having her just doesn’t compute. And motherhood is incredible, but postpartum blues had me feeling like a ball of crap for months.

Add to that the rigours of breastfeeding and feeling like a feeding trough for almost an entire year, and the thought of being sexy feels so foreign. Until last night, the only people who had seen my nipples since Bella’s conception were Bella and the lactation consultant.

But the way Dimitri looked at me last night, the way he touched, licked, and played with me so thoroughly, I don’t know if I can ever go that long without satisfaction again. It awoke something in me, and I’m not ready to give it up, even if it was just a performance to keep Nik off our backs.

Feeling desirable again is heady, and I want it to last, so I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth, and maybe while I’m busy gathering information, I’ll remember a bit of who I was before Bella.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur of snooping, wandering around the apartment, eating a simple sandwich for lunch, and fussing over what to wear to tea with Anastasia.

I know a bit about her from the gathered intel, but there are only so many things a few pieces of paper can tell me.

I settle on a simple Tom Ford off-the-shoulder emerald-green dress. The hem falls to mid-calf, and I’ve paired it with black strappy heels and a matching clutch. I feel poised, polished, and as ready as I can be.

My phone has an app for the lift, so I summon it and head downstairs.

The doorman greets me with a “Good afternoon, Mrs Aslanov,” and I look behind me like an idiot and recover with a bashful smile, citing newlywed forgetfulness of my new name.

The new driver never makes eye contact, just looks at a spot fixed over my left shoulder as he holds the door open for me, and I know then that Dimitri’s warning has been heard far and wide among his employees. He drives me to the Ritz Carlton as the scenery blurs by. When we arrive and the valet opens the door, I step out, gawking at the façade.

A thought occurs to me. How am I going to pay for this? Or since Sergei invited me, is he paying? Or Anastasia?

“Ma’am?” the valet asks, shaking me out of my musings. Dimitri hasn’t let me fumble so far today, and I have to trust he has this covered as well.

“Thank you,” I say, stepping away from the car and into the opulent hotel. My heels click along the marble flooring, and the concierge points me in the right direction.

Stopping at the podium, I say I’m meeting Anastasia Golubev for tea, and the maître d’ leads me through the room. Every table is decorated with flowers and delicate sandwiches as patrons eat and chat. A string quartet plays on a raised stage in the corner, their gentle music lending the whole place an elegant feel.

He winds his way through the tables and leads me towards one in the centre of the room. Usually, I prefer a table along the perimeter where no one can sneak up on me, and I don’t feel so on display, but that isn’t my life anymore.

“Hello, Elsa,” Anastasia greets from her tufted armchair.

I slide into my seat and place my clutch on the table. “Hi, Anastasia. Thank you for meeting with me today.”

I don’t know if this was her idea or her father’s, but either way, I’m grateful to get out of the apartment for a bit.

“Not at all. We women have to stick together. Though, you’d think my father would know me better than to assumeteais the right choice. We’re not sixty, after all.”

She laughs, and I relax. Though, being British, tea is life.

“Not yet anyway, though my knee has started clicking every time I stand up, so it’s probably right around the corner,” I say.

“Tell me about it,” she commiserates. “When I put my arm behind the headrest in the car to reverse, I get stuck about twenty per cent of the time. Damned nerves.”

Her dark eyes are alight with humour as we laugh, and I pick up the menu to compose myself.

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