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“Attention,” Sonya orders in a shouted whisper. “Service is about to begin. Mr. Zaitsev expects professionalism from all of you. Your job is to assist the party, not join it. Perform your duties and then move out of the way. You are background furniture. Do you understand?”
We all nod. Sonya has gone over the instructions twice now. Each time, she’s made sure to emphasize exactly how separate from Kirill and his guests we should be. And each time, she spared an extra-long look at me.
I can take a hint.
“I swear, if they could turn us invisible, they would,” Natalia whispers in my ear. “‘How is my glass refilling itself? I’ll never know. It’s magic.’Then they wouldn’t even need to acknowledge us. How ideal for them.”
Natalia is upset by the idea, but if I could turn invisible right now, I absolutely would. But before I can figure that trick out, Sonya pushes open the double doors into the dining area.
One of the first days I worked in the mansion, I was assigned the task of mopping the wood floors in this room. It was large and cold when I was here. The furniture was shoved to the edges and draped in heavy cloth.
Now, the room glows with warmth and life. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling, filling the space with light. White and gold bouquets are spaced evenly down the length of a large table and the smell of sweet wine and buttered bread rolls fills the air.
Kirill certainly knows how to throw a party.
As we enter, he stands up and addresses his guests. I miss the beginning of his speech because the sight of him in a black, fitted button-down and wool trousers temporarily short-circuits my brain. It’s not right that he can look so good in everything. Formal wear, swim trunks, naked… I have yet to see a side of him that isn’t appealing.
That’s probably part of his charm in this world. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, as Mom would say.
The brief thought of my mom stings.
It seems I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. Either I have inappropriate thoughts about my boss or painful thoughts about my mom.
Maybe throwing myself into this gig can be a reprieve. I do my best to clear my mind and focus on what Kirill is saying to his guests.
“… Drink and eat as much as you like. I’ll make sure everyone gets home safely.” There’s a small chuckle from the fifteen or so guests around the table. “So, with that said, enjoy.”
The second service begins. I beeline to the far end of the table from Kirill. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to hang out down here and avoid getting within earshot of him all night.
Natalia told me to be careful of these people, but the men I’m looking at are not threats. One man, Arnov, is the tallest, skinniest man I’ve ever seen. He looks like he was rolled through a pasta machine and survived to tell the tale. His date, on the other hand, is a short, round woman with enormous breasts. Like a banana and a pear holding hands. Opposites attract, I suppose.
The odd couple and the dour-faced men on either side of them, who I assume are security of some kind, all want to start with side salads. I hurry back to the kitchen to collect their plates.
On my way across the room, Kirill’s voice jumps out of the crowd, the familiarity of it calling out to me. And despite all of my best intentions, I turn towards the sound.
Our eyes meet across the room.
Kirill is sitting at the head of the table, a drink held lazily between his long fingers. His expression is flat, but there’s a sense of superiority in the way he arches his brow. His green eyes blaze through me, lighting me up brighter than any of the massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
Then, as if he’s completely unaffected, Kirill turns away. Just like that, the heat inside of me turns achingly cold.
I stumble through the first course of service, offering polite smiles and head nods when required. But I can’t stop looking down the table, wondering what Kirill is talking about. Who he is talking to. What he is thinking of.
The easy answer is the most painful one. Viktoria is sitting next to him, but I’m doing my best to pretend she doesn’t exist.
When I head back to the kitchen to fetch more bread, Natalia yanks me to the side. “He and Viktoria haven’t spoken the entire party,” she informs me.
I give her a blank stare. “What?”
“Viktoria and Kirill,” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Sonya isn’t nearby. “They haven’t spoken. He isn’t even looking at her, though the poor girl’s trying her best to wiggle her tatas in a way that will draw the big man’s eyes.”
My downtrodden spirits lift their heads slightly before I remember I’m not supposed to care. “Okay? I’m not sure what you want me to—”
“They’re supposed to be engaged, aren’t they?” she asks. “So why aren’t they talking? Someone else told me the woman with Viktoria’s dad is not her mom; it’s hismistress. Can you believe that shit?”
I turn back and glance through the square window set into the door. The woman sitting between Viktoria and her father can’t be more than ten years older than Viktoria, at most.
“He brought his mistress to a family dinner?” I ask in amazement. “And everyone knows?”
