Page 24 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

T he alarm blares at five in the morning like always.

After a batch of crying, I managed to get an hour of sleep. I woke up, struggling to breathe, the pins and needles of anxiety coursed through me so badly.

I drank the glass of water Roma left for me on the nightstand and turned on the news. The color seeped into the dark room, where I laid between the pillows Roma artfully spread out.

I maybe dozed for another hour before staring up at the ceiling the rest of the night.

The alarm cuts off a weather report but I don’t care. Clear skies aren’t going to make this day any less painful.

You’re such a stupid bitch, Ren.

It’s the repeated thought that won’t leave me alone.

Texts and reminders fill my phone when I grab it to turn off the alarm. There’s not a single message from any of my friends.

My shower is followed by skincare, makeup, and hair. I don’t think about the clothes I pull on. How I suddenly hate every single item in my wardrobe. I slip something on, smooth my hair back, and crush my feet into a pair of heels.

I grimace thanks to the slice of pain down my back when I move to the door.

I’m wearing a pair of sunglasses when I open my door and find Trevino.

“You okay?” He looks a little nervous to ask.

“Considering you know every single person who comes in and out of this building”—I head to the elevators—“and you certainly know who knocks on my door, I’m fairly certain you know the answer to that.”

“What do you want to do?” he asks as the doors close.

“What?”

“Stop and get coffee somewhere? Schedule an appointment with your therapist. Go to the gun range.”

“I’m guessing that last one is your version of therapy.”

A tiny smirk graces his face but he wipes it clean a second later. “Look I’m your bodyguard. I’m here to provide you physical protection. But if you want a mental health day just show me to the nearest salon.”

I stare at the silver elevator doors, my eyes burning. Trevino is actually really fucking nice when he gets over his grumpiness. “Actually I do have a standing nail appointment this morning.”

“Hopefully it’s one of those places that serves champagne.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. “I’ve got a full day.” I fidget with the leather carryall in my hands. “And there’s normally a pot of coffee going at Fujimori’s.”

We make it to the lobby.

“You know I admire your work ethic,” Trevino says. He makes me pause in the lobby before stepping outside first to check the street. A black SUV waits at the curb.

“You’re the only one.” I slide into the backseat .

“Your friends are worried about you burning out.” He nods for the driver to go. “Take a day off and they’ll stop worrying so much.”

Traffic is already gridlocked and I wiggle in my seat. My back spasms as I pull out my phone and start going through emails. There’s one that makes me pause.

Yelena’s just sent me a reservation for lunch.

The restaurant is both boring and ostentatious. It’s a combination that most would find hard to pull off and yet somehow this place does it. The ceilings are high and airy, but the furniture and tablecloths are stiff.

I merely mentioned the name Zimin and got whisked back to a table. The pale blue of the ceiling matches the cold cloud of unhappiness that follows Yelena everywhere she goes.

She stands and we kiss each other’s cheeks.

A waiter pours water as soon as I sit down and I honest to God realize I don’t know when the last time I ate anywhere other than Fujimori’s.

The morning has been a tense one. Trevino kindly poured me a cup of coffee and later wisely refilled it.

Though, he did once have the audacity to place a glass of water on the table and scoot it over to me.

I had to take my eyes off an Italian mobster to shoot him a look before answering a question about arms trafficking.

Yelena places her napkin in her lap. “You look tired.”

“I could say the same about you.” The waiter places bread on the table and I am in heaven. Yelena shakes her head at my offering but I grab one, the warm butter smearing easily. “I know we said lunch this week, but I’m surprised it’s today. You must be tired after the party yesterday.”

“The staff helped.”

As in they did everything, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

“Everything looked amazing.” I stuff another piece of bread in my mouth. I swear they put crack in it, it tastes so good. I’m never going to mock Yelena’s choice of restaurant again. “Sailor looked happy.”

A whisper of a smile pulls at Yelena’s lips. “I do not understand these children’s television shows. They are so loud.”

I dip my bread in more butter. “I’m saved from all of that. Being childless, you know.”

“Would you ever want any?”

I pause, mid-tear into the bread. “Uh. . . I don’t know.” Using the napkin, I clean myself up. “I’m not so sure you invited me here to discuss the number of kids I want in the future.”

“You invited me,” she points out.

“Fair enough.” A server comes up and I order a Coke. Yelena sticks to water. “Is this the place you used to bring Russ?”

“Yes.”

There’s a tense beat as I fold my napkin in my lap.

She takes a deep breath. “I suppose you know all about that.”

“I know. . . a little.” Russet’s never hidden her dislike of her mother-in-law.

Yelena plays with the collection of rings on her fingers. “You get your nails done with Lila Romanova every four weeks.”

“Yes.” I hold out my hands, wiggling my fingers. “I went with red.”

She smiles as she appraises the manicure. “I always thought it so clever what you and her husband do.”

I cross my arms leaning back. I’m oddly not annoyed by this showing of nosiness .

“Lila used to come to you, asking for information on her husband’s dealings.

She does not agree with how he runs things.

Now he pays you to sit with her and listen to all her ideas.

You nod and I don’t know, perhaps you give her a tidbit every so often.

She leaves feeling like it’s a successful meeting discussing business while posing as an innocent spa date between friends.

All the meanwhile her husband hands you a tidy bill and pays for your fresh set. ”

I bite back a smile. “I didn’t know you frequent the Wellford.” It’s Lila Romanova’s preferred spa.

Yelena glances down, lifting her brows as she has some internal dialogue with herself. “Actually, I find they overcharge.”

“Is that supposed to be a dig at me?”

“No.” And there’s nothing on her face to suggest otherwise.

She’s a perfectly pale doll, but there’s a shadow of gray that makes her appear older than she is.

Lev is old but hearty. A warmth, whether it’s fake or not, exudes from him, bringing life to the party.

His wife is a dainty, rigid specimen in comparison.

“On the contrary I applaud you. It’s easy money and buys you favor with a customer known for being an asshole. ”

The curse word sounds strange coming from Yelena’s puckered mouth.

“He lets her out on a leash,” I say of Lila’s husband. The man can’t bother to have a conversation with her himself so he’d rather pay me. “They need couples therapy. Bad.”

“May I please take your order?” a waiter in a bowtie asks. “Your usual, ma’am?”

Yelena nods.

“I’ll take the cheeseburger please.” I hand the menu over. “Why’d you really agree to meet with me?”

“Why’d you really ask me to meet with you?” she returns, her brow knitting together. The wrinkles only add to her weary presence. God, is this what Abe and Ben see when they look at me?

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I just saw Yelena, standing there in her own house, looking like a stranger.

Feeling bad for this woman should be a waste of my time. But something draws me to her. Maybe it’s the fact I know it can’t be easy, putting up with a man like Lev.

She’s much more soft-spoken than I thought she’d be. Roma didn’t talk about his parents a lot when we first dated. Then stories trickled in the deeper I got into Aunt Macy’s business.

The perfect Russian doll people called her. Cold, uptight.

She bows her head slightly. “I am worried about Roma.”

I pull my drink closer, my shoulders tensing. “I’m really not interested in talking about your son.”

“I want him to open his own garage.”

A large party passes by our table.

“What?” I ask.

Yelena toys with a thin silver bracelet around her wrist. “He is very good with cars.”

Most would think her pride is too subtle. But I can see how bright it burns in her eyes. The rest of her face buried deep beneath the mask of pale boredom.

“Yeah.” Everyone is aware of his love for all things classic cars. I’m just happy I can take a car service every day. And even then, if it weren’t for the high heels I wear every day, I’d probably be fine legging it like most people around the city.

“I think he should open his own shop,” Yelena says. “I think he would enjoy it.”

“And how does he feel about that?”

“Roma always needs time to think about things.”

“All right. What do you think about it? I mean why would you want your son to be a car mechanic of all things?”

Yelena Zimin is trying to convince her son to go into a job that requires a lot of manual labor. I’d have never thought it possible.

“Is it not noble, owning your own business? There is this idea that I look down at those who get their hands dirty. But I am a child of a businessman. And a mother. I prefer oil and grease stain my son’s hands than other things such as blood.”

The words are so blunt, but also so wistful and earnest. A mother protecting her child. I take a breath, processing the woman in front of me.

“You ever kill anyone?” The place is crowded and my smile would make most people think I’m joking if they overheard me.

“We all do things to survive,” Yelena replies.

“Don’t we,” I mutter. “You want me to convince Roma to open a car shop or something?”

She must believe I have a lot more sway over Roma than I do. He made it very clear last night that he’s still in control.

“I think he’d appreciate your advice.” It’s as simple as that—she knows we’re somehow still entangled. “Especially as you are a business owner yourself.”

My eyes widen when a mouth-watering cheeseburger and fries are set down in front of me. “This is glorious,” I whisper.

A boring, cold-looking salad is placed in front of Yelena.

“You want a few fries,” I offer, feeling sorry for her. No one should have to eat a salad like that and I don’t know why she ordered it. The woman could stand to put on a few pounds.

“No, thank you.”

I push a few onto her plate anyway. After another thirty minutes of meaningless chitchat after she’s gotten what she wanted—someone to press her son to leave the family business—we leave. It’s when I’m getting up, that I notice she ate the fries I left on her plate.