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By the time Paul got home, Tatyana was already in her pajamas, which were Paul’s boxers, and a little white tank top. She was sitting at the kitchen table opening letters and bills with the little jeweled gold penknife she always used. Once, when Paul had admired it and asked if it was from Tiffany, she’d told him it used to belong to Czar Nicholas II.

She barely looked up at him, and her face was set in a scowl. Was she angry at him for being home so late? He’d texted her a few times to let her know where he was, so his late arrival time wouldn’t have been a surprise.

“Who did you have drinks with?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Bernie.”

“Bernie? Why? Are you thinking about going back to work for him?”

“Well, he did ask,” Paul replied, which wasn’t really a lie.

“Will you always be home this late?” she said. She was deep into a bottle of Whispering Angel and was also vaping.

He thought about pouring himself a couple of fingers of Scotch but decided he’d had enough alcohol for the evening, and he was thirsty. Instead, he poured himself a glass of club soda and took a few refreshing gulps.

“Only if I have a drink after work, which I don’t think I’ll make a habit of.”

“How do I make plans?”

“I’m sorry, milaya . In the future, I’ll call you or text you, let you know if I’m going to be late.”

“What if I want to have dinner with you?” She took a sip of rosé.

“You know this job, sweetie. I work till seven or eight most nights.”

“So no dinners?”

He shrugged. “Or late dinners?”

She jutted out her lower lip. “You’re no fun.” She took a puff from her e-cigarette.

“I’m sorry. It’s a long day. Your dad’s not an easy boss to work for.”

“You never said that about Bernie.”

“Bernie wasn’t such a hard taskmaster.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumped, and tears came to her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Paul said, stroking her back.

“I’m sorry. I’m in a bad mood.”

“Because I’m so late?”

“Because of Papa.”

“Did you have a fight with him?”

She nodded.

“About the wedding?” He knew that Polina was out of control when it came to the wedding planning. She’d hired a planner, was obsessed with giving Tatyana an over-the-top celebration. Polina wanted a showcase event, something that would show up their oligarch friends. She wanted to talk over every last detail of the ceremony, from the wall of flowers she wanted to the designer of her own dress—should it be the one who’d done Kate Middleton’s dress, Sarah Burton? What about David and Elizabeth Emanuel, who’d designed Lady Diana’s wedding gown—but weren’t they now divorced? Who had designed Kim Kardashian’s dress? Paul had pointed out that Kim and Kanye West were divorced, too.

It soon became clear that Polina and Arkady considered this wedding mostly theirs. And it was to be lavish. There were discussions about whom they should hire to perform—Lady Gaga or the Stones, Elton John or Sting?

The planning seemed to be largely Polina’s obsession, though. Arkady didn’t seem particularly interested.

“Of course about the wedding. What else?” Tatyana said.

“Let me guess,” Paul said, trying for levity. “About the flavor of the cake?”

Tatyana took a long, annoyed breath. “Papa wants me to wear his grandmother’s ring, which looks ridiculous,” she said. “It’s clunky and very antique-looking. Not my style at all. But he says it’s a family heirloom.”

Paul thought, I’m staying away from that one.

“And there’s more,” she went on after draining her wineglass and immediately refilling it. “He said he wants to invite all three of his exes, and Polina hit the roof.”

“But you have to at least invite your mother, don’t you?” Her mother lived in Moscow, Paul remembered.

She nodded, gulped some more rosé. “Polina hates my mother. Because my mama calls her ‘the Snake.’”

“They don’t have to sit together.”

“Polina’s so extra. But today she was extra extra. She said if my mama is there, she won’t go. I can’t deal with this anymore.”

Paul thought for a moment, taking in Tatyana’s distress. “Listen, dushen’kaya . It’s going to be okay. I have an idea that’ll put a stop to all this.”

She looked up at him, a sliver of hope visible on her face, her eyes beseeching him to relieve her of her misery.

“What if we just went to City Hall?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“We just walk in and sign some papers and swear an oath, maybe, and we’re married. What do you think? No wedding party, no ex-wives. We just walk in there, you and me, and do it.”

“Are you serious?” To his surprise, she was smiling.

“You know I don’t joke around.”

“No party?”

“Maybe we can have a party later, but not a wedding . No wedding dress, no argument over whether to have a rabbi or a Russian Orthodox priest, no ten-tiered wedding cake. No Lady Gaga.”

“Really? You mean it?”

“I do.” He laughed, touched her cheek lovingly. And what a wonderful thing, to see how happy you look already , he thought.

“Oh, Pasha! A huge weight just came off my shoulders.”

*

That night, Paul was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed when his phone pinged, an incoming text. He glanced down and saw that the text was from Eugene Frost.

Car will pick you up tomorrow 7 a.m. in front of your building and take you to Teterboro. Cancel any appointments you have tomorrow.

Paul read it over a few times. Teterboro, he knew, was the private airport half an hour away in New Jersey. That meant, probably, that he was meeting Galkin’s plane. But for what? He hesitated a moment, finally typing, Where will I be flying?

Chicago , came the reply.

For how long? He typed back.

He waited a minute, two minutes, but no reply came.

He wanted to ask Tatyana what she thought about Mr. Frost’s order and what it was all about, but she already had her Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany’s sleep mask on, turquoise satin with an image of golden eyelashes on it, and he didn’t want to bother her anymore.