Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(6)

“What do you mean?”

“It means that if anyone, Mom included, suspects I’m not crazy in love with that son of a bitch, we’re dead.”





Chapter 3


I look at the pile of dresses I have just finished trying on, and feel the crazy need to sit on the small stool in the changing room and cry. All of them are designed for women taller than me and blessed with huge breasts. Every dress so far has made me look comical, like a girl who’s been playing in her mother’s closet.

I’ve been thinking about the party this whole week, absorbed in different scenarios that might happen after I arrive. It has occupied my every waking thought, and I completely forgot to buy a dress.

The realization came only this morning while I was eating my cereal, and I almost fainted. I always have problems finding dresses that fit, so finding one in a few hours would be an impossible feat.

Fast-forward, and here I am—entering the fifth hour of my fruitless shopping spree, and I still haven’t found anything remotely suitable for a fancy event. I love wearing elegant clothes, but I got so frustrated each time I tried to buy something, I stopped looking and focused on my casual wardrobe. I would never tell anyone, but most of the time I shop in teen sections. Based on the tags, I am fourteen years old. And tonight, I would rather go in my jeans than in a dress from the teen prom rack.

My phone rings in my jeans pocket on the chair, so I fish it out and look at the unknown caller on the screen. Probably a wrong number. I put the phone back on top of my folded jeans, let it ring, and reach for the last of the dresses to try out. It’s a beautiful silky green thing, and it would look amazing . . . on someone else. Just looking at it is enough to see that the waistline would fall below my waist, almost at my hips. The phone rings again, the same number. I reject the call just to have them call again a minute later. Well, isn’t someone persistent? They will probably just keep calling, so better to put a stop to it right away.

“Yes?” I bark while keeping the phone between my ear and shoulder, and unbutton the green dress.

Maybe it won’t be so bad.

“Miss Grey,” a deep voice answers, and the dress slips from my fingers. “I wanted to check if everything is going according to schedule on your side.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Petrov. Why do you ask?”

“Because Maxim just called to tell me that you’ve been sitting in a changing room in some shop for almost an hour.”

What?! I grab the heavy curtain intending to march out of the changing room when I remember I’m in my underwear. Damn it.

“You’re following me?” I whisper yell into the phone.

“Technically, Maxim is. I don’t want to risk you disappearing without following through with our agreement.”

I pick up the green dress from the floor and start putting it on. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m trying to find a dress for your fucking party. Call off your stalker, Mr. Petrov.”

Turning toward the mirror, I look at my reflection and groan. A big no for the green dress.

“You still don’t have a dress? The party is in four hours.”



“I know! But nothing here fits.”

There is a pause on his side and then— “Stay there.” The line goes dead.

What the fuck just happened? “Whatever.” I mumble, staring at the phone, then collect the dresses and leave them with the sales assistant. There is one more shop I can check out at this part of the mall, but if I don’t find something there, I have no idea what I’m going to do. I guess I could head to the upper level. There are a few upscale boutiques there. I might be able to find something, and they usually have a seamstress on-site who could shorten the dress right away. But, those shops are pricey.

There is no way I am going to spend two grand on a dress.

I’m going toward the exit when I see the guy from the restaurant. I remember him standing a few paces behind Petrov the whole time. He’s in his late forties and slightly overweight, but he carries it well. The dark suit and tie he’s wearing are impeccable, definitely expensive. He looks like someone from a bank’s upper management rather than a criminal. When I step out of the store, he sizes me up over his glasses and shakes his head. He probably finds me lacking. Like I give a fuck.

“Come on.” He motions with his head toward the elevator. “They are waiting for you for the

fitting.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The boutique staff.”

“Which boutique?” I ask, entering the elevator.

“Roman said the most expensive one. I didn’t pay attention to the name.”

“I’m on a budget.”

“Roman is paying.”

I open my mouth to say no, then think about it. The guy is blackmailing me into marriage by

dangling my father’s life in front of my nose. He should be paying for the dress.

An hour and a half later, I exit the boutique with a huge garment bag concealing my new,

professionally shortened dress, and two more boxes holding strappy heels and a clutch purse. I wonder what my future husband will think about my dress. One thing is certain, he won’t like it when he sees the receipt.




She is late.

I return to the conversation around the table, doing my best to fake interest. I was never a fan of big gatherings. Fake people with fake smiles, pretending they are oh-so-happy-to-see-you while, secretly, they wish for your demise. I look around the table and wonder which one of them set up the bomb that fucked up my life. It wasn’t the Italians. Of that, I’m sure. This device was planted under my car, and if it were the Italians, they would have rigged the whole warehouse. I was lucky that the bastard got trigger happy and hit the remote a few seconds before I was even inside. Only a handful of people knew my schedule for that day, and some of them are sitting at this table.