Page 24 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)
You Petty Bitch
LYDIA
So, thanks to CalMart Delivery, I finally got my second bed.
But thanks to my neuro double feature of dyslexia and ADHD, I couldn’t figure out how to put it together after Yom left for a meeting before a Raptor’s practice and Pesya departed a couple hours later for what she considered her “real” job at Yom’s mansion in Orono.
I admired their ability to move between various projects without any body doubling or task-switching breakdowns
Meanwhile, I was knee-deep in metal bars, screws, and instructions that looked like a Byzantine map of contradictory illustrations and tiny-font paragraphs.
Not an ideal project for someone who needed a ruler to read and an attention span that took long coffee breaks for mental side quests, like, Hmm, I wonder if they had beds in the Byzantine era—I should look that up with a device that has read-aloud options.
By the third time I lost the ridiculous little Allen wrench, I was fighting tears of frustration.
That was how Ingrid found me a couple of hours before an early evening event that had been marked TBA on my calendar when she came in with Dessy, the Black non-binary hair-and-makeup artist the PR Pantheon had assigned to me for the gala.
“What’s happened here, then?” Ingrid’s voice rose a few octaves as her eyes flicked over the disaster zone I’d created with my hours of effort.
“I’m trying to put together a bed,” I answered, still searching for the Allen wrench. Seriously, did that thing go to ninja school for inanimate objects? How was it so insanely good at hiding from me?
“Where’s the mattress?” Dessy asked with a confused frown on their dramatically made-up and intentionally freckled face.
Rather than confess I hadn’t realized the mattress had to be ordered separately, I gritted my teeth. “Could you—or anyone at all who’s better at this than me—please get this bed put together before I get home tonight?”
Ingrid eyed the mess dubiously. “I’d have to ask Yom if?—”
“Never mind!” I exploded to my feet. “I’m going to take a shower before whatever you’ve got planned tonight. Unless you need to check with Yom about that, too.”
“No,” Ingrid said stiffly, glancing again at the mess. “It will put Dessy behind schedule, but?—”
I stormed out before she could finish graciously granting me permission to wash my own body. And I vowed to take twice as long, just to spite her.
But by the time the steam fogged the mirror, my righteous fury had wilted into guilt. It wasn’t Ingrid’s fault that Yom was a huge bully who’d probably only allowed my CalMart victory delivery because he’d known there was no way I’d manage to put it together myself.
By the time I came out, wrapped in the fluffy robe Ingrid had given me for my first gala prep, I was already mumbling apologies.
And I didn’t complain again. Not even when Ingrid presented me with a boho peach-colored gown instead of letting me recycle the peach one from the last gala.
To be fair, the gown looked amazing on me.
(Shoutout to the PR Pantheon who’d decided peach was my signature color.) But the floor-length skirt embroidered with flowers made me look like I was about to declare the official start of the Gemidgee Renaissance Faire.
And everyone knew that job belonged to Merry’s mom, Joy.
“You look divine,” Dessy declared with a clasp of their hands when I emerged from the still-only bedroom that I’d be forced to share with Yom for at least one more night.
Then they lifted something from the table with a flourish: a pair of dark-brown pointed elf ears that matched my skin exactly. “Now we just need some dramatic makeup, and we’ll add these ears and a flower crown as the finishing touches.”
I tilted my head, squinting with confusion. Then I turned to ask Ingrid, “ Are we going to a renaissance faire?”
“So, not a renaissance faire, then,” I breathed out when Stepan came around the front of the car to open the back door of the armored Maybach that Yom usually drove.
I stepped out to behold the massive structure standing before me. A mansion that looked like something out of a European fairy tale: pale stone walls crawling with ivy, a steep slate roof crowned with pointed spires, and whimsical oval windows.
Twin balconies jutted out on either side of the main entrance, their white balustrades glowing faintly in the dusk. In the center of the circular driveway, a grand fountain framed by a low manicured hedge threw arcs of water into the air.
My chest squeezed so tight it felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Because I knew this place. I’d been here before.
This wasn’t just another grand Rustanov estate, but the mansion. The one Yom and I had chosen together on that Minneapolis home tour six years ago. Back when I thought he— us forever—was my dream future.
The residence wasn’t as steel-and-glass modern as Yom preferred, but it had a huge rolling backyard with a private pond that froze over in winter.
It had been the compromise we’d agreed on, instead of his environmentally objectionable dream of a basement hockey rink to “save” our future children from not knowing how to ice skate.
Ingrid, who was also sporting a pair of pointed ears but with a sage-green bell-sleeved gown, had already scooted out of the car to stand beside me. “Isn’t it wonderful? It always takes my breath away, too, no matter how many times I’ve visited.”
No… no… It wasn’t wonderful. It was the home… the home that was supposed to be ours in the timeline where I never walked in on Yom in that barn.
“Why…” My throat tightened, the words scraping out of my throat. “Why are we here?”
Anger swelled in my chest. Was Yom trying to rub this house in my face? Like, See, idiot? This is the life you threw away when you decided you were too good for me.
The dream house hurt to look at, so I turned to Ingrid to ask. “What possible event could require me to come here?”
“Well, you see—” Ingrid started to answer, but the house’s front door opened before she could.
Yom…
Yom emerged from the front of the house, also sporting a pair of pointed ears.
He wore a fine ivory tunic embroidered with thick gold thread. A deep-emerald cape fell over one shoulder all the way to the ground, and on his head sat a crown of thorny branches and verdant vines, nestled between a pair of ivory-white antlers that appeared to sprout fromhis skull.
The Summer Fae King… I realized. He was dressed as the hero of The Summer Fae, my favorite Clara Quinn book.
6 years ago.
LYDIA: So, Volfie…
YOM: Yes?
LYDIA: I have a fun idea. You know what would be the opposite of a boring rich people wedding reception…?
YOM: I am not liking this idea.
LYDIA: You haven’t even heard it!
YOM: Does idea involve costumes you are making me wear for MinneCon?
LYDIA: …
LYDIA: You know, I love you. But you are really no fun.
YOM: We will have boring wedding party. Then for lifetime of not boring honeymoon, I will show you how fun your Yom can be.
Over 6 Years Later
“Announcing Mr. and Mrs. Rustanov!”
The words rang out across the backyard like a spell, and for a second I honestly wondered if I was hallucinating the sight that met me when I entered through the gate, where two huge bodyguards stood on watch in leather tunics, each crowned with the brown antlers of the Summer Fae King’s Wild Horde.
A harp trilled, the crowd turned to applaud, and Yom’s hand settled on the small of my back, prodding me forward toward a party filled with fae, witches, ogres, and sentient fauna.
Seriously, did I have a mind break while trying to put together that bed?
But no, there were details I never would’ve thought to imagine for what Ingrid was calling a Summer Fae post-elopement reception, even with the help of my favorite Seasons of the Fae book, which I’d re-read too many times to count.
Tables dusted with glittering moss. Lanterns suspended like captive stars. Gauzy runners breathing in the evening air. Flower crowns and antlers perched on the heads of various athletes and Rustanovs alike.
“Smile! Smile!” Ingrid instructed as she steered us toward a dais, where two massive thrones waited beneath an arch of emerald roses and golden thistle.
The thrones were made out of what appeared to be a gorgeous array of summer flowers, and we didn’t actually get to use them—just stand in front of them for what turned out to be a version of the chapters-long reception line the new Summer Fae King and Queen hosted (though some readers would say endured ) at their post wedding party, which, like our Vegas one, took place the same day they met again after a long time apart.
Cosplaying the Summer Fae Queen was not on my bingo card for the first ten days of fake marriage.
But the line moved, and well-wishers dressed as the sprawling cast of characters from my favorite series came rushing forward.
So I did what rich brides have done since the dawn of weddings: thanked people for coming to a party other people had planned.
Most of the reception liners were Rustanovs, Raptors, or local power brokers—basically, everyone who would’ve sat on Yom’s side of the aisle if there’d ever been an aisle.
I was grateful and a lot bemused that he’d gotten so many VIPs to play along with a The Summer Fae themed wedding.
Then, I finally saw a familiar face whose last name didn’t start with R.
“Lydia.”
I smiled up at the woman who stepped forward, looking rather out of place in a pink cocktail dress that showed off her still-lithe body thanks to decades of Pilates.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stick to the theme.” My adoptive mother threw a bewildered look to both sides. “I wasn’t sure what to… how to… I’m not…”
“No worries.” I shook my head before she could spiral into insecurity like she had at my engagement ceremony. “You look beautiful.”
She let out a relieved chuff. “So do you. Very… whatever it is you’re going for here.”
I couldn’t even be offended. In my mother’s universe, that counted as a gracious compliment.
“Hello, Yom,” she said, glancing at him nervously. “It’s good to see you again.”
Yom nodded, which wasn’t exactly a friendly response. But Yom had pretty much trained every Minnesotan who’d ever met him not to expect our trademark friendliness reflected back.
“You know,” she added, quickly returning her attention to me, “you look so much like Pam with the extra weight. I think it was a good decision.”
“It wasn’t exactly a decision,” I said, jolted by the mention of my birth mother, whose last name I had taken without anyone in attendance at the wedding knowing. “But thank you.”
Beside me, Yom took my hand. As if to remind me that he was there. Silent and mostly scowling. But there.
“No, seriously, Lyds,” Mom insisted. “She’d be so proud of you.”
My chest panged because no, Pam Nelson would not be proud of me. Nothing about this deal I’d made with my ruthless ex matched the woman who’d wanted so much better for me, she’d convinced her employer to adopt me before she died.
But the sweetness of my mother’s certainty made me leaned in to air-kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. That means a lot.”
She smiled in that simpering way she still did when she wanted someone to indulge her and pulled an envelope out of her pink clutch.
“And oh, I know your father mentioned something about us all having dinner soon, but Paul wanted you to have this.” She held the envelope up to reveal my name written in Paul’s spidery script on the front.
“Spoiler alert: It’s an apology. He told me he just wanted you to know that he’s changed. ”
Paul …
I didn’t dare look at Yom, who was still holding my hand. Tightly.
It was like Mom had brought a ticking time bomb into the reception, then asked me to take it from her hand.
A leaden weight settled in my palm, crawled up my arm, and slid down my spine, freezing me in place. And for some reason, instead of answering for myself, I finally glanced at Yom. Looking for what? Approval? Permission? Guidance? I wasn’t sure.
But he was wearing that stony blank look he always adopted when he was actually furious.
He let go of my hand and took the envelope from my mom…. then, to my surprise, opened the moss pouch Dessy had given me to use as a purse and dropped it inside without a word.
I stared wide-eyed at him as he turned back to my mother and said, “Lydia’s coordinator will be in touch regarding dates for dinner.”
Mom’s eyes flicked between us, happiness glimmering. “Hopefully, with all five of us. I’d really like us to move on from the past.”
My mother didn’t understand the past. She was a pretty orchid, tended and coddled by Dad and me so she never had to know who people really were—or that we’d been hurt by things her beloved son had done.
Yom inclined his head in a way that made him truly look like the ever-diplomatic Summer Fae King. “We will see what can be arranged.”
“Okay,” she chirped, throwing me an excited smile. She squeezed my fingers and drifted on, pink froth in a sea of antlers and ear tips.
More congratulations. More hugs and handshakes. A coach I didn’t remember from six years ago greeted me with a “You look beautiful, Lydia hon,” before declaring, “The AudacitYom always gets what he wants!”
I’d learned during the first exhibition game that “The AudacitYom” had replaced “Our Russkie Cousin” as Yom’s hockey nickname since I blocked all mentions of him.
On Day 2, I’d thought it fitting.
On Day 10…
My brain kept crashing and rebooting. Trying to reconcile the monster I’d run away from with the Summer Fae King who’d made my long-given-up reception dream come true.
“Lydia, you petty bitch!”
A voice broke me out of my confused reverie, right before someone slammed into me, arms squeezing tight. I staggered and maybe would have fallen if not for Yom placing a hand behind my shoulders to stop my backward progress.
In any other circumstances, I might have wondered why none of the antlered security were doing their job. But I knew that voice. I knew that hug. My nervous system immediately labeled her, even before I saw her face.
And after the six years I hadn’t known would pass before I saw her again, I wrapped my arms around her just as fiercely, not even caring if it knocked my flower crown askew.
“Hi, Trish,” I said into her citrus-scented hair. “I missed you, too.”