Page 1 of Beautiful Secrets

1

Mika

Iused to love watching my breath form clouds against the chill of the cool night air.

I would pretend it was cigarette smoke, and I was a glamorous Hollywood movie star. Hair sleeked back in gentle waves. Lips painted a piercing shade of red. Hands just like Mother’s, elegant and a little fragile.

The rest of the world has moved on, but those cigarettes on the long sticks are still the height of sophistication in my family. I tried to start smoking—years ago now. My mother made me. Sat me down and showed me what to do. It is something you have to power through until it is no longer horrible and sickening.

Like a dinner party. Or marriage. Or everything in my life.

But I was never that kind of person.

No dedication.

I watch my breath form a weak cloud as it condenses against the breezeless night. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and this far out in the countryside you can see every star. It reminds me of home. My real home.

This place will never be home to me. Even after ten years.

Another breath.

This time I let it out slowly, forming a neat little circle with my lips just like Mother showed me. A pout. Angelic, but with a hint of something more. You must make your upper lip appear bigger than your lower lip.

Why?

Because it makes you look like a doll.

But why would anyone want to look like a doll?

I laugh at thirteen-year-old me, how naive I was, and completely mess up my next pretend exhale.

Vanya kept up the pretense of acting like a doll better than I ever could. Which is ironic, considering she is anything but an angelic porcelain figurine. And if she takes any longer inside the small wooden shed behind me, Father will smash that innocent little porcelain doll into a thousand pieces.

“Vanya!” I whisper, rapping my knuckles on the wood. I stay as I am, back pressed against the weathered door, not daring to turn around in case someone sneaks up behind me.

Lev.

Yuri.

My father.

Dear God, don’t let it be my father.

I have no idea what we keep in here—a tractor, maybe?—but Vanya said this place was perfect.

She is not half wrong. The shed is secluded—a good fifteen-minute walk back to the main house.

We are surrounded by tall, spindly trees with white bark. A badly rutted dirt road weaves through them and near the front of the shed. But even out here, the warm glow of a dark-green lamp post shines through the trees.

The Vasiliev estate is ridiculously big. I don’t even know how many hectares it stretches for. Or is it acres? Whichever is bigger.

That is Father’s favorite phrase when he is shopping for cars, or horses, or houses. Which one will you have, Sir? Whichever is bigger.

This estate is a joke. It even has its own airfield.

But this little shed…this is the spot Vanya chose. It’s not romantic. It’s not special. But I’ve never been able to say no to my little sister.

Even if it means we might both get thrashed so hard we won’t be sitting for a week.