Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(34)

“He doesn’t need you defending him. He’s a big boy. Now, tell me: what did he ask you to do?”

She winces. “He told me to get rid of all the old, worn clothes.”

I keep my reaction muted purely because I don’t want to freak Rada out. I don’t want her to think she’s in trouble.

But her obnoxious employer, on the other hand? He’s definitely in trouble.

Not that it seems to bother him much. There are moments when I question if he actually enjoys driving me absolutely batty.

“Were they not meant to be thrown out?” Rada asks hesitantly.

“I shop at secondhand stores a lot. Vintage stuff, thrifted clothes. Them looking worn is kind of the point.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Orl—Paige.”

“No, don’t be sorry. This is not your fault. And I’m not mad.”

“I’d understand if you were, ma’am. If someone had had my clothes thrown out, I’d be mad.”

She looks a little stunned at herself. Clearly, she’s not used to speaking this freely. But I ease her mind by giving her a smile and a soft touch on the back of her hand. “I like you, Rada.”

She blushes awkwardly. “Thank you, ma’am. I like you, too.”

Something occurs to me. An opportunity, maybe. I lean closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen, I know Misha has his stupid rules about our relationship. If it makes you feel more comfortable, we can follow them when he’s around. But when he’s not around, maybe… maybe we can make our own rules?”

She glances nervously at the door as though she’s worried he’s going to bust in at any moment and spoil the burgeoning camaraderie we’re in the process of building. “Like calling you Paige, you mean?”

I nod. “Exactly like that.”

“I’ll… I’ll give it a shot. If you really want.”

“I really, really do.”

“Okay, well, maybe I can go see if the bag I marked for Goodwill has been sent off already?” she suggests.

I shake my head and let out a defeated exhale. “No, it’s okay. I’ll manage. He left me a few things, at least.”

I head into the walk-in closet and Rada follows behind me like a shadow. It’s the weirdest feeling in the world, having someone at your beck and call.

The walk-in closet has been divided into two sections. The left is his; the right is mine. For some reason, I find my gaze drifting off to the left.

Shelf after shelf after underlit shelf displays hundreds of pairs of gleaming leather loafers. Even from here, I can tell the craftsmanship is insanely high quality. The racks groan under the weight of custom suits in cloth garment bags. At the back is a rotunda of ties in every color in the world—as long as those colors are black, gray, or blood-red. Everywhere I look, there’s another designer label staring back at me.

It’s confirmation—not that I needed to see his closet to know it—that my future husband and I are as different as night and day.

I turn to the right. My half of the walk-in looks pathetically empty in comparison. Hell, it’d look pathetically empty by any standard.

He left me with a few casual t-shirts and ratty jeans folded in one of the drawers. Apparently, they don’t deserve the garment bag treatment. A few of my vintage dresses made the cut, as well as a pair of leather boots I bought myself for my twenty-fifth birthday.

“That’s a pretty necklace.”

Rada is staring at the pendant I’m twisting between my fingers. I tuck it back inside my t-shirt and give her a small smile. “Thanks. It’s old.”

“Another thrift store purchase?” she asks.

She’s trying to make conversation. If it were anyone else, I’d shut the conversation down. But she’s trying to become friends. I don’t want to scare her off. I don’t have many friends left.

“Not exactly,” I admit. “It was made for me. Sort of. By my best friend.”

“Oh. That’s really nice. Handmade gifts are the best. So personal.”

I nod. I can just end the conversation here. She’s not expecting anything further from me. She doesn’t suspect that there’s a story there that’s embedded itself so deep inside me that I fear I’ll never be able to move on from it.

“Her name was Clara,” I say before I can stop myself.

When was the last time I uttered her name out loud? I can’t even remember. And that, more than anything, makes me want to cry.

“‘Was’?”

I blink and Rada comes into focus. I’m dangerously close to tears, so I glance towards the cufflink collection I see behind a display pane of thick glass in Misha’s closet.

“Yeah. She… she passed away,” I whisper. “A long time ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I smile sadly and pull my necklace out again. “She was the sister I never had. Do you have any siblings?”

“Two older brothers and a younger sister. I’m not really close with any of them, though.”

I nod. “Family is who you choose.”

I’ve always believed that. Ever since I spotted Clara across Corden Park in that beat-up green trailer, wearing those purple Converse with the Sharpie’d smiley face on the toes, I knew she was my family.