The Law Offices of Snyder & Oglethorpe
cordially invite you
to ring in the New Year…
As if Raymond has ever done anything “cordially” in his entire fucking life. The only thing “cordial” about him is the cord I’d like to wrap around his throat.
I stand in front of the bedroom mirror in a backless emerald gown that Raymond picked out without asking my opinion on the subject. I keep running my palms down the front of it over and over, not because there are wrinkles, but because, if I don’t keep my hands busy, they’ll find their way to my belly.
And if they find their way to my belly, Raymond will notice.
“Cassandra.” His reflection appears behind mine, straightening his bowtie in the mirror. He smells like his cologne, which I’m pretty sure isFire & Brimstone by Satan Himself. “Are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“Don’t make me wait.” He half-turns, then pauses before leaving to add, “And smile tonight, would you? You’ve been moping around this apartment like a kicked dog for a month. That won’t do in front of my colleagues.”
“Yes, Raymond.”
He pats my hip. I don’t flinch. I’ve gotten very, very good at not flinching. It’s a skill I’m going to put on my LinkedIn one day, right betweenPartiallyfluent in SpanishandCan stumble her way through Microsoft Excel.
Cassandra Snyder: Does Not Flinch Under Duress. Available for Hire.
… Soon.
The ballroom at the Mandarin Oriental has too much gold, too much champagne, and too many women in dresses with astronomical price tags. A string quartet saws away in the corner. Waiters float between clusters of partners and their wives with trays of flutes and canapés.
I suppose it’s all very pleasant and nice, if you’re in the right state of mind to notice those sorts of things. Since I’m not, Vivaldi sounds more like nails on a chalkboard.
Raymond’s hand comes to rest on the small of my back the second we cross the threshold, and it stays there as if he’s super-glued to me. He walks me through the room like a show pony, parading me past men I’ve met a hundred times whose names I still can’t be bothered to remember.
I do exactly as promised: I smile. Even when my cheeks start to hurt from the prolonged effort, I laugh at the right moments and say,Oh, isn’t that something!whenever someone pauses long enough to require a response.
I’ve been doing this for four years. I could do it in my sleep.
I could do it pregnant, too, apparently.
Add that to the LinkedIn.
My hand drifts up toward my womb, but I catch it before it lands and fold it into my other hand at my waist instead, like the good little wife I am.
“Raymond!”
A woman in head-to-toe Valentino descends on us, and Raymond’s attention pivots. I use the opportunity to ease half a step back away from him, take a long sip of the sparkling water I’ve been nursing since we walked in, and scan the room for a bathroom or a balcony or really any exit at all?—
And that’s when I see him.
Matvei.
He’s standing across the ballroom, one elbow on the bar, a whiskey in his hand. Black tux. Black bowtie. Black everything, except the pale skin of his throat and the piercing blue of hiseyes, which are already fixed on me, because why wouldn’t they be?
What is he doing here?!
My first thought is that I’m being stalked.
My second thought is that I’m being watched over, which—given what I saw Matvei do to those men in the alley—is less reassuring than you might expect.
My third thought is that life can always, always get worse. I am the proof in the shit pudding.
