44. April

44

APRIL

"Ow!" Petra winces under my pins.

I don't pay it any mind. Right now, I'm focused on one thing only: the dress coming to life around her. "Stay still."

"Christ, fine!" Petra pouts. "And I thought I was bossy."

It's not completely unfair, as far as accusations go. When I'm like this, I can't see anything else. "Put yourself in my shoes: I've got two gowns to deliver and my mannequin quit on me?—"

"Can't imagine why," she mutters under her breath. Her eyes fix pointedly on the plastic carcass in the corner. I'm aware of how it looks: riddled with holes, one arm missing and the other dangling at the wrong angle—wait, was that a shiver ?

Either way, I choose to ignore her. "Would you be calm in a situation like this?"

"I'm always calm," she retorts. "You can't exterminate a rival Bratva if you're busy fretting about how long it's taking."

"And you can't be a good mannequin if you keep moving, Petra."

"You know, if you weren't pregnant, I'd have killed you already."

"Can't be the first time you've thought that," I mumble distractedly. God, would it kill this hem to just work? It's being as difficult as she is.

"No," Petra admits. "But you should at least pale a little."

"Sorry. I'll do my best to act terrified."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Your Work Mode is scary."

"Thanks. Means a lot coming from you."

I can feel Petra's urge to fidget under my hands. She's just not the type to sit still: tapping her foot, cracking her knuckles, huffing and puffing like the big, bad wolf in heels. Now that I've stuffed her into a ballgown, I feel like she's finally experiencing what it's like to be on the other side of the throwing knife.

Whatever. I'll bake her an apology cake. After I finish this dress, that is.

Like clockwork, Petra starts moving again. I'm about to scold her when I hear, "This is really beautiful."

"Oh," I say intelligently. "That's… Thank you?"

Petra's hand travels over the fabric, caressing the short tulle butterfly sleeves, lingering on the place they meet the bodice. "It's true. The stitching's flawless." She says it with a shrug, like it doesn't matter in the slightest. Like she's just stating the obvious. "Are you having a stroke?"

I shake my head. "You wish."

"I mean, yeah. Then at least I'd be free."

I'm terrible at taking compliments. Really, seriously terrible. I'd rather face a thousand throwing knives than this.

But also, I can't help preening a little. "Would you wear it?" I try to sound casual. "You know, if I wasn't forcing you at pin-point?"

"Probably," Petra concedes. "It's not exactly my style, but if I had to go for the Beauty and the Beast vibe, I'd definitely pick something like this. The design's very elegant, too."

Preening Points: +50%. "Thanks. That's… actually one of mine."

"Yours?" Petra frowns. "As in, you drew this?"

I give a sheepish nod. "It's a bit of a hobby," I confess. "Sketching out models and whatnot. Sometimes, Elias will let me take lead on commissions."

"I bet. This is easily worth four figures."

My head starts spinning. "Alright, that's enough. You don't have to say that."

But Petra only arches an eyebrow. " Cyka , do I look like I need to suck up to you? No? Didn't think so. So take the goddamn compliment. I don't say shit I don't mean."

That's a very aggressive way to praise someone. "I just… I'm not used to it. When I started out, I was just mending my own clothes."

"You guys couldn't afford new ones?" she ventures. I'd expect the words to be snobbish, but they come out without a trace of judgment.

"Yes and no," I reply. "Mostly, my parents were too busy arguing to notice. I didn't want them to fight about that, too, so I picked up a needle and thread and just did it myself. Grandma taught me a few stitches. After a while, I got pretty decent at it: altering my clothes, making new ones, all that jazz."

"God, you're so infuriating," Petra mutters. "‘Pretty decent.' I can't tell if you're fishing or you're serious."

"Well, I am a pro now," I amend. "But I wasn't always. And besides, I'm a tailor. Designing's a whole other bag of candies."

"But it's what you want to do?" Petra guesses.

I don't deny it. All kids have dreams—and kids from broken homes? They need to dream twice as hard. "It doesn't matter," I brush it off. "Fashion's all about connections. And money."

"You realize you're currently pregnant by a billionaire, right?"

I shake my head with a smile. "I couldn't possibly ask Matvey for that. I don't want to. I… I want to get there on my own. If I can't, then it wasn't meant to be."

If I can't, then I wasn't good enough in the first place.

"Dreams…" Petra's voice shakes me out of my reverie. "They don't listen to reason. So, if you're going to pursue one… blyat' , you shouldn't listen to reason, either."

I blink. "I'm sorry—did you just comfort me?"

"Don't get used to it . "

"I'm totally gonna. I'm gonna call you up at 3:00 A.M. and vent my woes into your ear."

"Try it. I'll cut out your tongue."

"I'll show up at your place with nail polish and face masks," I continue as if she hadn't spoken. "We can watch Mean Girls and gossip about tall, criminally-inclined Russian men."

"You don't know where I live."

"I'll bribe it out of Julia."

"I'll fire her."

"You'd never."

"Then I'll just kill you with a safety pin right now."

I grin. Now, that's the Petra we all know and fear. "Can I at least finish this dress first?"

"Please do," she begs. "How much longer anyway?"

"Not long."

"Oh, good?—"

"Just one more gown and we're good to go."

Petra's eyes grow to the size of melons. "I'm sorry. One more gown ?"

"Well, yeah. Client's asked for two."

"You've got to be kidding me."

" And you're just her size! How lucky is that?"

While Petra's muttering, "God, please kill me now" into the ceiling, I whip up my phone and snatch a selfie of the two of us—me beaming, her scowling.

Then, before I can think twice about it, I press Send .