“I don’t know why. Obviously, I’ve been doing just fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Where are you staying?”

A clothing store’s window display drew me in. A bell dinged as I stepped inside, and I sighed in relief at the warmth.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I can’t read Russian, Ivan.” I headed to a clothing rack to peruse the dresses. I didn’t know if there was a performance at the opera house tonight, but I figured I should dress for one. Better to be overdressed than under in my learned opinion. “Besides, I stayed at a restaurant last night. I didn’t catch the name.”

Slowly, he asked, “Why did you stay at a restaurant, Mila?”

Well, crap.

“I wasn’t going to tell you that,” I said, and then before I could stop myself, I grumbled, “Must be the concussion.”

“The what?”

I was really digging myself into a hole here.

I bit my lip. “I’ll admit, yesterday wasn’t the most ideal situation, but it has nothing to do with my ability to take care of myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

I sighed, realizing I would have to tell him the truth because I’d never been a good liar, and there wasn’t a chance he’d buy the elaborate tale my brain was thinking up right now. It involved a bus and a kitten and a heroic sense of self.

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell my papa. I don’t want to worry him.”

“I promise,” he grated.

“Well, if you want me to put it frankly . . . I was sort of attacked, and maybe almost murdered.”

Silence.

“But don’t worry. Apparently, the man had a phobia of star necklaces, and I got away.” I pushed a dress on the rack aside.

A colorful Russian curse. “Where are you?”

“I’m shopping.”

I wasn’t going to tell him about my plans tonight. I knew how well it would be received—at least by my papa once Ivan snitched on me. Ivan never cared about who I went out with. His indifference stomped on my first crush and fantasy—created by Ms. Marta’s dirty books I snuck away with when she wasn’t looking—of a white knight on a steed who’d behead other men just for looking at me. Though, in that fantasyland, blood didn’t squirt in the air like a fountain because blood simply didn’t exist.

My expectations were unrealistic, a little gruesome, and a lot illegal. But a girl could dream.

“Shopping?” He sounded confused.

“Yes?”

“You were attacked, and then you got up and went shopping.”

“What would you like me to do? Cry myself to sleep?”

Maybe I should be traumatized, but somehow, I still only felt irritated at the situation. I hoped Scarface was having a shitty day.

“Mila . . . I want you to look around.” A foreboding edge crept into his voice. “Is anyone watching you?”

I froze, the hair on the back of my neck rising. “What? Why would someone be watching me?”

“Just do it. And do not make it obvious.”

A chill crawling up my spine, I discreetly glanced around the store, from a couple of women talking at the front counter, to a few others trying on accessories and perusing clothing racks. They were looking at me here and there, though only like I was a tourist who didn’t blend in. I stared out the front window but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“Did you know my mother was famous here?” I asked. Maybe she had a Charles Manson-like group of fans?

He sighed.

“You did, didn’t you?” I accused. “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”

“Because you would have gone digging where you do not belong.”

“Don’t belong? She was my mother!”

“Why don’t you say it a little louder, so the whole city can hear you?” he chided.

“Who cares if they do?”

“I want you to stay somewhere public until I come get you.”

The tone of his voice made my throat feel thick. “Ivan, you’re scaring me.”

“Good. Now, go hand one of the saleswomen your phone so I can find out where you are.”

I took a step in the front counter’s direction, but something stopped me. “I’m not ready to go home.”

“This is not about what you wan—”

“No, it never is, is it?” My voice rose. “I know about my papa’s other family. You don’t have to scare me into coming home to keep the secret anymore. For once, I’m thinking about myself.”

Silence.

“Mila—”

“Goodbye, Ivan.”

“Mila—”

I ended the call.

With a huff, I pushed a hanger on the rack aside. Receiving another call from him, I turned the phone off and dropped it into my pocket, but his ominous words still played on a reel in the back of my mind.

la vie en rose

(n.) life through rose-colored glasses

My dress was yellow and flowy with an umber crocheted bodice. It was modest except for the inch it showed of my midsection and the slit up the thigh. The heels I wore were clear and sparkly, lacing halfway up my calves to show off my best feature. I was the queen of ponytails, but I chose to leave the straightened locks down, and as usual, I applied a light amount of makeup.

I was ready an hour early and spent the rest of the time chewing my glossed lip and pacing back and forth. Nerves swam in my stomach, making me lightheaded. I should have eaten something earlier, but I had an unhealthy habit of forgetting until food was placed in front of me.

I didn’t believe Ronan thought of this as a date, but I couldn’t stop the whisper of anticipation that tightened my lungs. A very stupid, romantic part of me had hearts in her eyes. Never mind the fact I was soon to accept an archaic proposal from a man who was probably screwing some Texan oil heiress right now.

Ronan knocked on the door at eight on the dot.

He consumed the entire doorway. Dark eyes, broad shoulders, and smooth black lines. He filled out a suit better than any man I ever saw, though his presence seemed to overwhelm the seams as if they could barely contain him.

We only stared at each other for a second longer than comfortable, and when my breath began to slow beneath his penetrating silence, I forced a word past my lips.

“Privet.” Hello.

He raised a brow. “So you do know some Russian?”

A flush crept up my neck. “A little.”

I stepped out, closing the door behind me. He didn’t move back like I expected him to, and it left only a couple of inches between us. We were so close I couldn’t breathe. So close, yellow and black almost touched. So close, I could kiss him with a small rise to my toes. In four-inch heels, I stood eye level with his mouth, which put him at a solid six foot five.

“You’re kind of tall for a girl,” he mused, looking down on me.

I released a shallow breath. “Thanks.”

When he laughed softly, I sighed in my mind. My crush couldn’t be any clearer if I waved an “I LOVE YOU!” sign like a fangirl at a boy band concert.