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She raises her eyebrows. “Dinner?”
“I’ll make sure Viktoria reminds you.”
“Dinner,” she repeats as if it’s a foreign concept. “With you?”
I smile. “In a few days. That should give you time to pick an outfit.”
“Right,” she agrees flatly while curling into her cardigan. “Plenty of time.”
Warmth radiates from my grin as I say, “Can’t wait,rodnaya.”
Chapter Nineteen
Liya
The row of dresses in my closet puts my old apartment to shame. Not because it has more luxurious items than I’ve ever seen in my life, but thecloset itselfis the same size as my old bedroom. A thousand images splash through my brain of the dingy hall carpet, the water-damaged linoleum, the cot-like beds.
“I had three days,” I groan. “Why did I wait until the day of to pick something?”
“Because you panicked.”
I trace my left eyebrow, cringing when I touch the area still irritated by Karina plucking the hair right out of my face. “Andyoutortured me.”
She laughs. “Beauty is pain, Liya.”
“I highly doubt anyone is going to be looking that closely at my face.”
“It’s Pavel. He’s going to notice every detail.” She flashes a reassuring smile. “Which also means he’s taken every little part of your dinner tonight into account. It’s going to be flawless.”
I shudder to think of how much of a fool I’m going to make of myself. “But this place literally overlooks Central Park from a private booth. I can’t even pronounce the name of the restaurant.”
She leans forward while looking at the crisp white card Viktoria delivered this morning—the same one that’s caused about three panic attacks and five bouts of nausea.
“Basilic,” Karina says with a flawless French accent. “It basically meansbasil.”
“Named after an herb?” I sigh while tucking the card into my pocket. I’ve never received a formal invitation on a card—shit, I don’t think I’ve ever received a formal invitationat all. “That means it’s fancy as hell.”
She nods. “That’s why we have to pick something that will make you glow.”
“What if I don’t want to glow?”
She takes my hand gently and leads me into the walk-in closet lined with designer clothes. There are about twenty outfits for every season without including formal and semiformal attire. Why Pavel thinks I need all this is strange.
And intimidating.
Andoverwhelming.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Jimmy Choo in person,” I state while delicately plucking one of the stiletto red heels from a lit-up shelf. “Christ, I don’t even want to know the cost.”
“At least put it on.”
I shoot her a bashful look. “When did you get used to this? Did youeverget used to this?”
She looks stunned for a second until she starts digging through a rack of formal evening gowns. “I grew up in this world. I don’t think there was anything I had to get used to.”
“Except for the crime part?”
She laughs lightly, but I don’t miss the twinkle of worry in her eyes. “I know what my family is up to. I don’t turn a blind eye to it. I just…” She purses her lips while squinting at a dress. When she takes it off the shelf, she holds it up while saying, “I’m more like my brother’s counselor, so to speak.”
