Page 31 of Sway

What? “But I promised Tony—”

He slams the rest of his drink. “No buts. It’s non-negotiable. You’ll attend.”

I jump off the sofa. “I can’t go.”

He gets up from the couch and points his stubby finger in my face. “You will go.”

This is bullshit. “Nyet. I won’t. Look, Venya, things have to change around here. I’m the star now. I can’t be seen at stupid dance council meeting.”

His face goes hard and he clutches me by the arms. “Now listen here, Viktoria Josephovna Brooks. The only reason you’re on this bloody show is me. I turned you into the dancer you are today. Not to mention that I support your grandmother. Luxury retirement homes aren’t cheap. Hundreds of young girls would kill to be in your place. I’m sure Diana would do anything to dance with Jared and be the U.S. Professional Latin Champion.”

I can’t believe this bastard brought my baba into this. That’s low, even for him. I try to squirm out of his clamps but I’m unsuccessful. Cha-Cha comes to my rescue and nips at Benny’s foot. “You wouldn’t dare,” I challenge. “Diana would never agree to do what I did. She’s Mormon, and engaged.”

He releases his hold on me and laughs. “Don’t be so sure, Lassie. Ambition makes people forget all their morals.” I stare at the hair protruding out of his ear. It’s like a goddamn peach. “Don’t embarrass me. You’ll come with me tomorrow. End of discussion.”

I scowl at him and rub my arms, trying to erase the red marks.

He forces a kiss on me. “I’ll be in bed. You better be upstairs in twenty minutes.” He turns and ascends up our circular staircase.

Fuck.Who does that bastard think he is? I can’t even fake that I’m sick tomorrow—he’d drag me out of bed. I see my Chanel bag vibrating, grab it, and probe for my iPhone. One new message.

Tony (Mobile): Hey babe. Sorry I couldn’t hang out after tonight’s show. You’ve got me wound up. I can’t think about anything else. We still on for tomorrow?

I can’t believe I have to go to that damn lunch. Why am I still married to Benny? I don’t need this anymore.

Vika (Mobile): I can’t meet you. I’ll call later. Sorry.

I rummage through my purse and fish out the remnants of that divine wing. I head to the kitchen to dispose of my indulgence. Cha-Cha trots by my side. Story of my life. Hiding things I love and pretending to love things that I need. Marina is hunched over the kitchen table, feigning to read a Russian Glamour. But I know she just heard our fight.

She shuts her magazine and stands up. “Hello, Vikochka. Do you want a banana?” she says in Russian.

I throw the crumpled napkin onto the sparkly black granite countertop. What a relief to talk to someone in my own language. “Nah, just throw this away for me.” She obediently opens the trash lid. She has bags under her eyes. “You look tired, Marishka. Maybe you should get some rest.”

Her chin drops. “Me? Don’t you worry about little old me.”

“Stop with old. You’re my age.” I lean against the counter and watch as Marishka squirts a few drops of honey onto my smashed banana. “Anything good in Glamour this month?” I turn the magazine and pull it closer for a better look, dislodging a handwritten list underneath it. “To Do” it says in Russian. It’s a long list. “Oh, did you send Baba the pashmina shawl?” Baba loves pashmina. And anything Baba loves, I get Baba. She worked to bleeding fingers for me to dance.

“Of course, Vika. Flowers, too. Hyacinths, chrysanthemums, and primroses, her favorites.”

I air kiss in Marina’s direction then pause and put my nose in the air, sniffing dramatically, feeling the faintest smile trying to creep onto my face. Onions and horseradish. “Did you make some of your lamb pelmeni tonight?”

Marina’s eyes get wide and she wipes her palms on her trousers. “Yes, but you know you can’t have any. Mr. Benny would be very angry. Not in the middle of the season.”

She looks scared. Sad thing is, she’s probably my best friend in the world. “Just a couple, Marinochka, please. I promise I won’t tell him. I’m starving.”

She nervously looks around. “Alright. Just a few,” she whispers. “But only because I think you’re too skinny.” She reluctantly heads to the stainless steel fridge. “I don’t know why you let Mr. Benny tell you what you can and can’t do. My husband loves me no matter what I eat.”

Marina has a point. Benny doesn’t even know who I am or what I want. He has made me into his fantasy ballroom Barbie.

The pelmeni smells like heaven warming up in the microwave. “Marisha,” I say, opening the silverware drawer. Shoot, this is a linen drawer. “Do me a favor, will you? Melt some butter over the top. Oh, and add a scoop of smetana to that. No, wait . . .” I find a serving spoon in the next drawer and hold it up like a trophy, “make that two scoops. This is a mighty big spoon.”