Page 15 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

A nother week, another shitty lunch date with Yelena.

I’ve met with her every week for a month now.

Every Thursday at eleven o’clock we do the same stupid dance.

She always arrives ahead of time, meaning she’s already seated.

She sighs as she stands up, annoyed that I’m late, and proceeds to kiss each of my cheeks.

Another sigh as she sits down, bothered that she’s wasting her time in my presence.

We eat salads no matter what. And trust me, I’ve tried ordering a burger. The waiter took my order and then served me the plainest salad they had, the dressing on the side. There’s never any dessert which is okay because I’ve continued my baking with mostly decent results.

Other than Sergei, Elijah is the only person who gives me critical feedback. That’s because every Thursday, while Max is at his evening class, Elijah pops over with a pizza, somehow managing to get rid of Olga.

I eat half of it every time and he never fat-shames me, unlike his stepmother. In fact, I think he’s impressed. Or possibly alarmed .

Is it a good idea to have Elijah come over while Max is gone? No. But I crave the carbs in a way that’s not good. In a way that tells me I’m not happy.

In the past, when I’ve experienced depression, I didn’t have the chance to fully recognize it. Life felt shitty at times, but bills were due. I remained too busy to understand how things slowly slipped into a blur of darkness.

Now all I have is time on my hands. Outside of baking, I use the language app, meaning I can now count to a hundred in Russian.

We had dinner one night with Lev and Yelena.

Once again my father-in-law was kind and attentive while I studied the similarities between mother and son.

I can’t say I was pleased, but for what it’s worth, Max’s eyes never take on a cold vacant stare when we’re together.

Not that there’s much happening on that front.

He never cuddles after sex and I keep telling myself I’ll get used to it.

Just like I’ve had to get used to the reality that he’s right about Marissa.

A divorce from Max doesn’t mean I go back to my old life. It’s simply not possible. I’m forever altered in some way now that I know the Zimin’s. I know nothing about their inner operations, but enough to be categorized as one of them, because I’ve eaten enough meals with various family members.

Marissa would dig for information, and then, in turn, grow paranoid about what information I gave them. It’s a bullet in the back of my head if she’s feeling merciful. If not, then she’ll let her male friends have fun with me before breaking my body piece by piece.

I haven’t heard from Daisy in almost three months. If everything’s gone okay, she’s now out of her first trimester.

The hardest pill to swallow about this whole ordeal is the lapse in my life from her constant companionship. It used to be a day didn’t go by without talking to her. Whether we bitched about our jobs, discussed our dating lives, or talked about the most random things. She’s my ride-or-die.

But it already feels like she’s died. A sinking pit opens in my stomach when the idea comes to me. I’ve messaged old friends, asking how they’ve been and what mutual acquaintances they’ve seen in the hopes of hearing news.

Nothing. Last week I grew so paranoid I strayed toward my old haunts.

I might have had a better chance if I’d gone bar hopping, but there was no way in hell I could pull it off.

So instead I went to the coffee shop I used to frequent and the diner Daisy worked at as a teenager.

My heart squeezed when the older waitress who knows Daisy asked if I’d seen her lately. Not a good sign.

I got played by Marissa. Daisy’s still in her hooks somewhere and I’ve been around long enough to know things will only get worse.

“You look tired,” Yelena says, sipping from her water. “Olga tells me you’ve started to drink wine every night.”

Yelena loves dropping little hints that Olga’s her eyes and ears. As if I could forget.

“I had one glass last night and so did Maxim.” While we ate our beloved grilled chicken and veggies for dinner.

She pouts like she does every time I use her son’s name. Trying to change the trajectory of lunch, I ask how Roma is doing.

Her eyes narrow. “Why? What have you heard?”

“Nothing,” I answer truthfully. “Max makes it sound like he stays busy.”

That’s a lie. He hardly talks about his brothers.

After Elijah started poking around I asked him if he was close to them.

He said no, and when I pointed out that he and Roma were twins, he sighed and somewhat amended his response.

He texts them often enough that I know they are close.

It seems to be that typical I love you but you annoy me sibling relationship.

From what I gather Elijah works at one of the companies owned by the Zimin’s.

I’ve asked no further information about any of the legalities, but I think it irks Max that his brother already graduated with an MBA and climbed up the ranks.

I wanted to point out that he has five years on him since he’s older but I’m starting to realize Max is not only competitive but extremely hard on himself.

I noticed it when we had dinner with his parents. First impressions, I thought he was a mama’s boy, but it’s his father he aspires to.

“Roman is a private person,” Yelena says.

Part of me wants to poke the bear and dig further. It’s not worth it, though. She can’t slap me across the table but maybe the fear is still in the back of my mind.

She’s glaring more than normal today which doesn’t help. Her lips drawn into a full-blown scowl versus their usual haughty pout. But commotion behind me causes her angry expression to widen into one of surprise. Her spine straightens, her face wiped blank.

Not caring about manners, I turn my neck and spot a woman walking forward.

One glance, tells me she’s the life of the party.

She doesn’t walk in her heels. She glides.

Yelena wears nice outfits. This woman owns everything on her.

The striped button-down, tucked into black pants.

It’s put together but not fussy. Thick, gorgeous, long brown hair with caramel highlights is curled lightly down her back.

She drops her purse onto a chair when she arrives at her table.

The other woman doesn’t even have time to stand up before she smacks both cheeks with a kiss.

Her lips are red, her smile taking over her whole face.

And it brightens—I mean literally illuminates—as she starts to giggle with this friend, the affection is so real.

I keep watching the hair sway when something nags at my mind.

“Is that Gia Akatov?” I blurt. There’s a resemblance to Lennie, though, if that’s her mother I have no idea where her awkwardness came from.

“Yes.” Yelena’s lips press into a firm line.

Now I understand why Marissa constantly shit-talked Gia Akatov. She’s everything she wanted to be. And based on her reaction, Yelena shares a similar sentiment.

“Do you know her well?” I ask, curious. Lennie and her sisters appeared around the same ages as the Zimin brothers and they were at the party.

“The Akatovs are a friend of the family,” she replies tightly. More like their partners in crime, but okay.

Salads are placed in front of us and she stabs at her lettuce with more force than usual. Normally, she’s overly dainty, reminding me of one of those creepy porcelain dolls from the olden days.

If I wasn’t here, I’m guessing she’d order a bottle of wine.

But considering she just lowkey accused me of alcoholism, she remains calm, steadfastly focusing on her food.

I, on the other hand, glance over every so often.

I’m not the only one. Gia isn’t loud but she’s not shy.

There’s giggling. Animated talking. She and her friend drink a lot of wine.

She’s friendly with everyone. The waiter who’s normally moody with us, smiles when he talks to Gia.

I swear I overhear her asking how his mother is doing.

She must be a regular because she’ll stop mid-conversation and wave at other servers when they pass by.

It’s endearing, how she doesn’t find any of them beneath her, unlike Yelena who makes it known they’re here to do her bidding.

“She kind of reminds me of Irina.” The thought is out before I think better of it.

Yelena’s fork clatters to her plate. She leans back, crossing her arms, tossing her head back so hair falls out of her face. “You think so little of Irina?”

“No.” But I’d love to know what Irina thinks of her daughter-in-law. I have a feeling she’d like Gia more than this cold, stiff woman in front of me.

Needing a moment away from Yelena’s dark cloud of misery, I excuse myself and head to the restroom.

The bathroom is made out of gilded gold. It’s huge, with stalls that run floor to ceiling for genuine privacy. I sit on the toilet for an obscene amount of time, not caring if Yelena makes a comment about my bowel movements.

I’m washing my hands at the row of marble sinks when the door swings open. I keep my head down and prepare for a group of women who will fluff up their hair and talk about their upcoming vacations.

Instead, Gia enters.

She goes straight to the sink, washing her hands. Water continues to run over mine because I’m too awkward to move in her presence.

But she isn’t. Turning off the sink, she grabs a towel and dries her hands. She throws it in the hamper and then smooths a hair back. She reapplies her lipstick, her thumb brushing her bottom lip.

“Can I fix your hair for you?”

I stare at her. She’s speaking to me. She doesn’t wait for my response, though. Her hands are soft against my hair. Olga always twists it uncomfortably into a chignon but the bobby pins, no matter how many are jammed into my scalp, never stay.

“You need to use texture spray,” she says, gentle hands combing through my hair.

She unpins everything, her fingers working quickly.

There’s speed and precision to her movements.

To all of them, I realize. Even when she washed her hands and fixed her makeup.

She constantly moves, going from one thing to the next.

I watch her through the mirror. Her face is calm, her eyes focused on her work. Instead of a bun, she finger combs my thin locks down my back and then twists the sides, pinning them so they frame my face.

It looks better and I’m not saying that because I’m biased against everything Olga does. My scalp doesn’t hurt as much and the hair isn’t falling out. It’s demure and mature, even though I’d assume it’d come across as childish.

Gia is one of those women that knows how to style things. I can only imagine what her home is like. Warm perfume fills my nose, the notes almost masculine. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s wearing her husband’s cologne.

“I like that so much better. You?” she asks me through the mirror. I nod. “Can I give you some advice, love? You need a different lipstick. That color is all wrong, makes you look ghoulish. Try something from Chanel. They never do me wrong.”

The remnants of a dark lip stain are all that remain on my chapped lips. I’m taken aback by how she delivers her feedback. Yelena snips and sighs. Gia’s an auntie coming to the rescue.

Though, for a moment I stiffen when she leans in closer, her breath against my ear.

“The best revenge against a mother-in-law—”warm brown eyes pin me in the mirror—“is to take the son.”

She teases my strands, smiling softly like she’s helping. If only she understood how flat the advice falls.

That would require the son to want me.

I try to smile and she squeezes my shoulder before she exits the bathroom, my fairy godmother departing.