The fifth day, the boy delivered another package. Déjà vu raised goose bumps on my arms when I opened the box. It contained another lemon-yellow faux fur coat with “Kotyonok” stitched on the collar.
Get it dirty.
But NEVER again with blood.
—Ronan
I put it on and fell onto the bed like I had a month ago in an entirely different situation, my heart thumping hard. I pressed my nose in the fur, hoping—needing—it to smell like Ronan. It didn’t. And as the ache in my chest rose to burn my eyes, Khaos nudged me with his head. I cuddled up beside him and whispered to him and another who couldn’t hear, “Ya lyublyu tebya.” I love you.
The sixth day, the boy delivered a new iPhone, my passport, ID, an obscene amount of cash, and a plane ticket to Miami that left the next day. My hands shook as I picked up the note and read it. A single tear fell, smearing the ink.
This ISN’T proshchay.
—Ronan
The seventh day, I was being discharged. The nurses packed up my things while I sat on the bed, knees to my chest, waiting. Waiting for the boy to arrive and give me something else from Ronan. Anything.
But he never came.
Heart heavy, its beat rebelling in my chest, I gave one last look at my hospital room before walking out. A car picked me up and drove me to the airport while I moved on autopilot, unable to do anything as my body was pulled in two different directions.
I boarded the plane to Miami and froze in the service door, my heart beating so hard it stopped me from taking another step.
“Devushka, vy zaderzhivayete ochered’,” a flight attendant told me. When I blankly looked at her, she must have realized I didn’t know much Russian. Though not understanding her wasn’t why I was cemented in confliction. “You are holding up the line,” she repeated softly in English.
Throat thick, I forced my feet down the aisle with Khaos following behind. He’d gotten his own seat. I wasn’t sure if that was allowed either, but rule-breaking seemed to be Ronan’s thing.
I gave Khaos the window seat. It was his first plane ride after all. I rested my head against his soft fur and refused to cry, even as the raw ache in my chest grew heavier and heavier the farther we flew from Moscow.
MILA
Four months later
Warm, humid air breezed into the studio from the open terrace doors, rustling the sheer curtains. Below the veranda lay a white sandy beach, crystal-blue water, and palm trees swaying in the wind.
Belize was gorgeous.
A paradise on earth.
Though even here, my thoughts wandered across the Atlantic Ocean. I wondered what Russia looked like in the summer. My imagination pictured the country covered in eternal ice and snow. Still, Moscow called to me while paradise’s breeze caressed my hair.
“Chop, chop!” Flora clapped her hands in the air, her tribal-patterned poncho rising to show the leotard beneath. “Carlos is going to be here in ten minutes, and you know how much he hates to be kept waiting.”
The stylist standing behind me rolled her eyes and spritzed my blown-out curls.
When I arrived in Miami four months ago, I’d returned to my childhood home even though Ronan had given me enough money to purchase a small condo if I wanted to. But I was compelled to do something before I left The Moorings forever.
Stepping through the front door, I found an empty house and lots of dust. Every piece of furniture sat in the same place, but the memories left behind were silent, like they’d left with Borya and the maids.
I ran a line through the dust on the banister as Khaos and I ventured up the staircase. Reaching my room, I wound the ballerina in my music box, setting her on one last lonely pirouette. Then I dropped my papa’s birthday present from the balcony. The box cracked, the tune ended with a final sad note, and the dancer stopped spinning forever.
She never wanted to be a ballerina anyway.
I reached the door to leave but paused when I saw a small card lying in the dust-free square where the music box had sat. It was the business card the model agent slipped me on the street years ago. I’d hidden it after my papa refused to allow modeling of any kind and then forgot about it.
I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
Modeling was supposed to be a hard industry to get into. Although, I’d either gotten very narcissistic or divine intervention had stepped in. Because here I was now, modeling a campaign for a vegan product. I only went to go-sees and accepted contracts from humanitarian-conscious companies and designers—which my agent hated—but apparently, this new spark in my eyes worked out great for me.
Months ago, I believed I would be engaged to Carter—or even married at this point existing as a jaded housewife. I wasn’t sure how Carter got the memo none of thatwould be happening, but when I ran into him last week picking up some takeout, he’d dropped his tacos as if the sight of me gave him a heart attack and immediately took off in the other direction.
It wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting . . . but it would do.
No Carter. No working in the sex industry. And no living on pennies. All of those fears had evaporated, but I was still consumed with doubt of another kind.
I closed my eyes as one of the makeup artists applied mascara to my lashes.
“Good god, no!” Flora exclaimed. “Were you not briefed today?”
The artist frowned. “Yes. We’re going with clean looks.”
Flora’s brow rose above her sixties-style round glasses. “What about black mascara on a blonde says ‘clean’ to you? It says ‘slutty club girl’ to me. She already has a slutty vibe. We don’t need to exaggerate it.”
Slutty vibe?
Flora waved a hand at my face. “Fix it. Just fix it before Carlos shows up.” Then she flounced off to harass someone else.
Twenty minutes later, I wore an athletic one-piece swimsuit and stood on a terrace giving a perfect view of the ocean.
Click . . . Click . . . Grumble.
“We need sexy,” Carlos snapped. “Not ‘I’m saving myself for marriage.’”
Okay . . . I was “slutty” a moment ago. Not to mention, it was hard to feel sexy with a milk mustache, holding a pint of almond milk.
Click.
“No, no, no.” Carlos rubbed his temples. “Please tell me you’ve had sex before.”
Sometimes, I questioned this career, but overall, I loved promoting my vegan lifestyle and that the substantial income gave me the means to truly make a difference somewhere.
“Yes, I’ve had sex.” A few times . . .
“Good sex?”
“Yes.” Heat rushed up to my neck because I knew where he was going with this, and I really didn’t want to go there. “But can I ask a question?”
“No.”
I asked anyway. “Why does an almond milk advertisement need to be sexy?”
He sighed irritably. “Sex sells, darling.”
“I’m just thinking of the kids here . . . Wouldn’t they want to send their parents off to buy this milk if I looked happy drinking it instead of, well . . . horny?”
Carlos gave me a dry look. “You are lucky you have the perfect look for this shoot. Or I’d toss you off this terrace so fast.”
I sighed.
“Now, think of the best sex you’ve ever had.”
Ugh.
Exhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and thought of inked hands next to mine on the shower wall. I thought of Ronan’s mouth on my neck and the fullness of him inside me. His hand collaring my throat. Vse moya. The way he held me. How he smelled and tasted. I remembered. And it hit me with a ball of fire that erupted inside me.
I opened my eyes.
Click.
Silence settled on the terrace while longing tore through me. I hoped Carlos got the shot because I didn’t want to be here anymore.
“Wow, girl . . .” Carlos murmured. “We definitely got it. But now we all want to hear the story.”
Everyone stared at me while my heart slowly ripped in half. I dropped the pint of milk and walked offset. Grabbing my bag, I exited the studio and sucked in a shaky breath of fresh air, heading to the villa I shared with a couple of models during the two-day stay.