Page 53

53

LUCIA

I t’s past seven when I call Bryce to go home.

The apartment is dark and deserted, the children’s discarded belongings exactly where they were when I left. I move around, picking things up and tidying them away, keeping mindlessly busy.

Take the test, Darya.

It’s the first time in a while I’ve heard that steely voice inside me. But I guess it’s Darya’s strength I need right now, not Lucia’s fudgy complacence.

“Time to face the gallows, girl,” I say aloud. Just hearing my own voice helps, in some weird way. It almost makes me laugh, in a slightly hysterical kind of way.

I go across the corridor to my own apartment, smiling at Bryce. “If the kids come home,” I say, “tell them I’ll be in shortly.” I lock the door behind me, get the test, and go to the bathroom.

It’s the longest damned five minutes of my life.

Or it might have been, if the little pink plus sign didn’t flash neon bright within about thirty fucking seconds.

“Holy shit.” I stare at the white stick, completely unable to stand up. There’s a dull roar in my ears, and the room swirls queerly about me.

None of it feels real.

Sitting on the closed toilet lid in this gleaming white bathroom.

The Borovsky safe in the room upstairs.

The passports stashed in Papa’s villa.

Lance Ryder grabbing my arm.

Roman’s face swirls just beyond my mental reach. I can’t even conjure the sound of his voice.

How did I get here?

And I don’t mean, physically, how did pregnancy occur. The only real miracle, given the manic rush of the past few months, is that it took so long to happen.

It’s more that the road between the days when I served Roman his morning coffee to this moment of being served a pink plus sign on a white fucking stick seems incredibly short. As if I missed some important signpost on the way. One that says something like, Hey, Darya? You’re about to completely blow your fucking life up.

A child isn’t something I can run from. It isn’t something I can lie about or keep secret.

A child is an inescapable reality.

A reality I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to face. Let alone how Roman will.

Or, God help me, the children. What are they going to make of this?

I put my burning face in my hands before I throw up.

How could I have been so damned stupid?

I don’t know how long I sit on that closed toilet, head in hands, staring at the white stick on the floor. It could be ten minutes, or an hour. All I know is that, at some point, I’m jolted out of my shocked stupor by a hard knock on my apartment door.

“Luce!” Ofelia’s voice is high with tension. “Mama wants to meet you.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I wrap the offending stick in toilet paper and drop it into the shining silver bin.

Everything around here gleams , I think randomly. It’s like a shiny, happy world where nothing is supposed to go wrong. I feel like a dark smudge on the pristine window, a carelessly spilled glass on the clean surface of their lives.

I glance at myself in the mirror, then quickly look away again. I’m a mess. Hair is falling out of my braid. My white shirt is crumpled, my linen trousers creased. I splash water on my burning face and take a few deep breaths to try to calm the hectic look in my eyes.

“Luce!” Ofelia knocks again.

“I’m coming.” My voice at least sounds reasonably sane.

I guess that’s one advantage of having spent the past six years faking sanity.

Ofelia is hovering anxiously outside my door. She’s holding a new designer bag, the price of which would easily feed an entire family for a year, and she has twice as much makeup on as she did when she left the apartment.

“It’s not good,” she whispers in my ear. “Masha’s been acting up all day, and Mickey disappeared with Luis in the middle of our meal. Mama’s seriously pissed.”

Great.

Trying to still my frantic pulse, I plaster on a smile and follow her through the door.

My first impression of Inger is, surprisingly, how beautiful she is in the flesh. It’s not hard to see where Ofelia gets her amazing features from. If I’m being fair, the images in the tabloids don’t remotely do Inger justice.

She has sloping cornflower-blue eyes, a few shades lighter than her eldest daughter’s, fringed with long, dark lashes that look annoyingly natural. A perfectly diamond-shaped face with cut-glass Slavic cheekbones and sculptured lips. And her skin is completely, almost uncannily, flawless.

Add in endless tanned legs, subtle cleavage, and trim curves, and Inger Stevanovsky is one-hundred-percent pure Russian model knockout. Even dressed in a skintight pantsuit and dripping with far too much gold jewelry.

Unsurprisingly, she takes one look at me and curls her lip in contempt. “So this is the famous Lucia Lopez.”

The moment she opens her mouth, the beautiful illusion is completely shattered. Her voice is petulant and shrill, her eyes flashing maliciously as she crosses the room toward me, holding out a pale hand topped with fierce red talons. It’s limp and cold in my own.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stevanovsky.” I meet her eyes briefly when I smile, then lower them respectfully. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few years, it’s how to be invisible.

“Is it.” She injects the words with enough hostility to make her meaning more than clear.

I’m still trying to work out how to respond when Masha comes barreling out of her room and hurls herself at my legs.

“Luce!” She reaches up for the hug I would normally bestow.

Instead, I gently remove her arms and turn her around to face her mother. “I hope you had a lovely afternoon together.”

“No.” Masha turns back around and eyes me belligerently. “Shopping,” she says, with such contempt I press my lips together to stop myself grinning. Masha loathes shopping.

“But you liked the toy store, Masha, remember?” Ofelia says hurriedly, stepping over to remove her from me. “Why don’t you get the Barbie Mama bought for you?”

“Don’ like Barbie,” says Masha mutinously. Fishing in the pocket of her jeans, she comes up holding a rock, which she flourishes triumphantly. “Look what I found, Luce! For Deda.”

“I don’t think Deda Yuri will want rocks, Masha.” Inger’s eyes glitter with annoyance.

“For Deda Juan .” To my horror, Masha pokes her tongue out at her mother.

“Masha!” Ofelia has gone white.

“Well.” Inger glares at me. “I can see that teaching manners is clearly not your forte, Miss Lopez .”

There’s something unsettling about the emphasis she puts on my name. The first time, I’d thought it was just my imagination. But this time, the calculating look in her eyes sends a shiver of unease through me.

“Do I dare ask who Deda Juan is?”

“Masha,” I say quietly, trying to stay calm. “I’d love to see the Barbie your mama got for you. Have you said thank you?”

“Fank you,” she mutters resentfully, but she goes out of the room obediently enough.

“Deda Juan is my father,” I explain. “Masha took to calling him that. I have tried to correct her, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure she isn’t confused.”

“I fail to understand why my children are spending time with your father. Does he have a working with children clearance?” Her distasteful insinuation is clear enough. I try to push down my sudden surge of anger.

“You know how strict Mr. Stevanovsky is about security.” I meet her eyes steadily. “He would never allow the children to be in harm’s way.”

“Ha.” Her eyes roam around the apartment. “You’ve certainly made yourself at home. The apartment looks nothing like it did when I decorated it.”

Because nothing says “home” like a soulless white sea.

“Where is Roman?” She glares at me like his absence is my fault. “He assured me he’d be here when we got home.”

Well, I’m glad he informed someone.

Increasingly unhinged, I’m still trying to work out what to say when the door opens behind me and, to my relief, Roman’s voice intervenes.

“You said you’d be home at eight, Inger.” I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him use this tone before. It’s calm, courteous—and utterly chilling. “It’s five minutes to the hour. I’m hardly late.”

Holy shit.

If he ever used that tone with me, I’d be running a hundred miles in the opposite direction. Inger, however, seems completely unfazed.

“Romie!” Her icy expression transforms in an instant, to a girlish smile that matches the saccharine tone of her voice. I step out of the way to avoid being mowed down as she makes a beeline for Roman, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth. I try not to watch. Figuring the sooner I get out of here, the better, I start edging toward the door.

“Wait,” Inger commands imperiously. Still clinging to Roman, she eyes me over his neck. “I bought Ofelia a dress for the ball today. I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow with the hairdresser and makeup. Can you make sure the dress is hung properly, and that she doesn’t get makeup on it? I’ll send my people over to get her ready after they’re done with me. Mickey and Masha’s outfits will be sent over in the morning.”

Mickey and Masha’s outfits? For a ball?

“Of course, Mrs. Stevanovsky.” I don’t dare look at Ofelia’s agonized face. I can’t see Roman’s.

“Romie.” Inger pulls back, though her arms are still locked around his neck. “You and the children will pick me up at the hotel at seven. Bring the limo, so we can all arrive together. It’s just awkward with the paps if we’re waiting for a second car to arrive.”

Ha. So that’s who he’s attending the ball with.

It makes sense, I guess.

Show a united front to the press. Play happy family for the cameras.

It’s not like I didn’t spend several years playing that very same game.

I just didn’t imagine that Roman would put the kids through that same kind of torture. To think that he will, even for Inger’s sake, is disappointing.

Oh, sure, Darya. That’s why you’re disappointed.

That steely internal voice seems to be making a comeback. Clearly the logical part of me knows I’m in desperate need of a hard dose of reality.

“Is that all, Mrs. Stevanovsky?” Keeping my eyes down, I back toward the door.

“For now.” Her eyes flare with triumph. “I’ll let Romie know if there’s anything else.”

“Thank you,” I mutter.

I open the door and flee, accompanied by the sound of her shrill, artificial laughter.

“Oh, Romie,” I hear as the door closes. “Nikolai said she was pretty .”

I shower in a numb state of confusion, then dress in the most comfortable pajamas I own. I’m in no mood for lingerie sets right now.

I have no idea what I’m in any mood for.

I curl up on my small two-seat sofa, nursing a cup of peppermint tea.

Is peppermint tea harmful to unborn babies?

I have no idea. I also have absolutely no appetite.

Now I’m starving it, too.

It?

What an awful thing to call a baby.

For some odd reason the nameplate on the safe pops into my mind.

“Borovsky,” I mutter, holding my hand over my belly. “That’s what I’ll call you, since you’re a secret that’s in a safe place.”

I find myself smiling, and that strikes me as the weirdest thing of all, in a day that has been chock-full of weird.

I sit in the same numb state for a good hour, until a tentative knock comes at my door. I wrap myself in my robe and cross the room, praying it isn’t Roman. I’m not sure I have the strength for that encounter right now.

Instead, I open it to find three little faces staring at me. A tearstained Masha is standing between her siblings, clutching one each of their hands. Mickey and Ofelia look at me with mingled expressions of shame and tension that break my heart completely.

“Oh, darling.” I kneel down, and Masha lets go of her siblings’ hands, wrapping her arms and legs around me as I pick her up. “Come in,” I say over her shoulder, and the kids file silently in behind her. Keeping hold of the taut little figure wrapped around me, I put chocolate on the stove and get the latest batch of alfajores out of the cupboard.

“Mama’s gone,” Ofelia says quietly. She and Mickey exchange a tense look. “She’s out for dinner with Roman,” she says nervously.

“Okay.” I smile at her and stroke the hair back from her face, which has been washed clean of makeup. She’s swapped the black dress and stilettos for sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair in a loose ponytail. “You look exhausted.” I hand her the cookies. “Want to watch Dirty Dancing again? I was just about to put it on.”

Ofelia looks at me skeptically. “Aren’t you angry?”

“Of course not, darling.” My lying skills are seriously getting a workout today. “Roman and your mama have a lot of things they need to talk about in relation to you guys, and not a lot of time to do it. I’m glad they’re catching up tonight.”

“Yeah,” Mickey mutters. “Sure.” His jaw clenches, and the dark anger in his eyes is not at all unlike his godfather’s.

“Don’t be cross at Roman,” I say. “He’s got a lot going on right now.”

“Ha.” His laugh is entirely mirthless. He moves restlessly around the room. I watch him from the corner of my eye, wondering what’s going on there.

“Ofelia said Dimitry came and got you this afternoon,” I say to him, stroking Masha’s back as I stir the chocolate. She hasn’t said a word, but her breathing is still short and uneven, and she’s as stiff as a board in my arms. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s all fine,” Mickey says shortly. “Just something at the lab Pavel wanted me to look at.”

“Oh.” I nod as if this is the most normal thing in the world, though why a fourteen-year-old has suddenly become indispensable to the lab is another mystery in a day of them. “And did you get it all finished?”

“Sort of.” Mickey meets my eyes briefly, then his slide away.

Something is definitely off.

Ofelia pulls the pot off the stove and pours chocolate into mugs while I put cookies on the plate. We carry them over to the small coffee table. She sits beside me, while Mickey perches on one of the sofa arms. Masha stays right where she is, glued to me like a limpet on a rock. I notice she’s sucking her thumb, which I don’t ever recall her doing.

“The dress Inger bought for me is awful.” It’s Ofelia who speaks first. “I can’t wear it, Luce, honestly. I just can’t.” She turns pleading eyes to me. “Have you spoken to Roman about it yet?”

“Not yet,” I say, smiling reassuringly at her. “But I will, as soon as I get a chance. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll support your decision to wear a dress of your choice.” I have no idea if I’ll get any such chance, or if Roman will do anything of the kind.

I also don’t give a fuck.

Ofelia will wear what makes her comfortable, even if I have to hog-tie her bloody mother.

“By the time we go to pick your mama up, it will be too late for her to argue.”

I should feel bad about so blatantly undermining Inger, but I don’t.

I just don’t.

“Seriously?” The tremulous hope in Ofelia’s face is all the encouragement my inner demons need.

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She slumps back against the sofa in relief. “Inger will hit the roof,” she says flatly.

It’s not lost on me that she’s dropped the “Mama.”

Mickey snorts. “Not in front of the paparazzi, she won’t.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why she’s making Masha and me go.”

“Mickey!” Ofelia hisses warningly, but it’s too late. Masha rears back, her face set in mutinous lines.

“Not gonna wear that dress,” she says, rubbing her eyes. I suddenly realize the source of her earlier tears.

“Oh, I see.” I stroke back the curls that are stuck to her damp forehead and make a face. “Did you get a dress today, too?”

Masha’s thundercloud frown grows even blacker. “It hurts .”

“Well, that’s not good. Maybe I can have a look at it in the morning and see if I can fix it so it doesn’t hurt?”

She shakes her head violently. “I don’ wanna! ” Her voice rises in pitch, and tears tremble in her eyes.

“Okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.” I hold her close, taking deep breaths to calm my internal fury. I’m actually glad Inger is nowhere close by. I’m not sure I would be able to restrain myself from actual violence for causing this degree of distress.

“Don’ wanna,” Masha says into my neck, between sobs. “Don’ wanna go to a stupid ball.”

“Inger’s going to lose it if she’s not there.” Mickey looks grimly between Ofelia and me. “We’ve got to get her there, even if it’s just for the photo op.”

“Let’s worry about that tomorrow,” I say firmly, eyeballing them both. “Give me a chance to talk to Roman.”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s hard tone is back. “I might have a little chat with Roman, too.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” I smile at him. Whatever is going on between him and Roman, it’s best sorted out between the two of them. Preferably in the boxing ring, going by the look in Mickey’s eyes.

“So.” Patting Masha’s shuddering back, I nod at the TV. “Are we going to watch nobody put Baby in a corner or what?”

That gets a reluctant laugh. Finally.

“That movie is so old.” Mickey rolls his eyes.

“It’s seriously uncool,” adds Ofelia.

“Hey.” I point a remonstrative finger at them both. “Don’t you ever go knocking Dirty Dancing. It’s my religion. And if you think that’s old, wait until I make you watch Gone with the Wind .”

“Gone with what?” Ofelia shakes her head. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. It’s bad enough watching Baby carry a watermelon for the fiftieth time.”

“It’s a classic.” I hit play. “Sit back and be educated, children.”

“You’re tragic.” Ofelia snuggles into my side.

“I can’t believe I’m watching this. Again. ” Mickey settles himself on the floor, his long legs outstretched in front of him. After a moment, his head comes down to rest quietly on my leg. I touch it gently, like approaching a baby deer in the forest. He reaches up and covers my hand with his own, holding it there.

The movie starts rolling.

Too late, I remember the whole damn Dirty Dancing storyline revolves around an illicit pregnancy.