28. Natalia

28

NATALIA

I'm almost at the pool house when I hear something… A scream? Or…?

No. Couldn't be that… could it?

"Hello?"

There's the rustle of leaves and then: "Just me!"

Mila appears from around the corner, running a hand through her messy hair. Is her blouse on backwards?

"What happened to you?" I ask.

She continues to try to pat down her hair. "Uh, I might ask you the same thing. Have you been crying?"

"Uh… maybe." I plop down on the porch swing, still looking towards the bushes she emerged from. "What were you doing back there?"

Her cheeks are pinker than normal. "Just taking a stroll."

"And why is your hair so messed up?"

"Got caught in a strong wind." She joins me on the porch swing. "Leonty mentioned something about a little, erm, temper tantrum you had earlier."

"Leonty talks entirely too much."

I can make out Mila's arched eyebrows from my peripheral vision. "If you don't want to talk about it?—"

"It wasn't a temper tantrum!" I snap. "I was just pissed about all the stupid, expensive gifts Andrey's been sending me."

Mila's jaw drops. "Why? I'd never be mad at a Hermes bag?—"

"I'm not some empty-headed bimbo who can be bought with a pretty purse. I want more !"

The air between us crackles in the silence that follows. Mila goes back to ironing out her hair, pointedly avoiding my eyes the entire time. "A bimbo like me, you mean?"

"No, of course that's not what I?—"

"No, you're right: I did marry a rich man I don't love for the convenience of a comfortable life. And I do enjoy spending his money on every extravagant purchase I can get my hands on." Her blue eyes are cool when they meet mine. "I understand why you would feel you have the moral high ground."

"Mila—"

"And while I agree that my choice is definitely not the most morally superior, I disagree with the insinuation that I'm a—what was your phrase—‘empty-headed bimbo'?"

I wince. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Maybe not directly." Her hands are folded in her lap. I can't tell if she's pissed off or not. "Did I ever tell you that I was home-schooled my entire life?"

"No. You never mentioned that."

"Yup. Until I was eighteen. I had no friends, except for the ones my father approved of. And I wasn't allowed boyfriends, which is why my first ‘relationship'—" She puts it in air quotes. "—had to be a secret. And you already know how that turned out." She pauses to blow out a breath. "Most eighteen-year-olds expect to go off to college after high school. But not me. Right after I turned nineteen, my father told me that he'd already arranged my marriage."

My jaw drops.

"Archaic, isn't it? But that's how my world functioned. The real shock was learning who my future husband was going to be."

I wrinkle my nose. "Did Viktor make a good first impression at least?"

"Viktor wasn't the man I was initially promised to," she explains with a bitter laugh. "My father planned to marry me off to this ancient creep named Vladimir Solovev. He was an arthritic seventy-year-old with eight children and eleven grandchildren. I would have been his fourth wife."

"Jesus Christ , Mila."

She actually laughs. "I was horrified. I also knew quite a bit about Vladimir Solovev. You see, his granddaughter and I were friends. And through her, I learned that dear old Vlad had a very specific kink. He only ever married virgins."

From the smirk spreading across her face, it's painfully clear that Mila was certainly not anything of the sort.

"So, when the Kuznetsovs were over for a little tete-a-tete with dear ol' Daddy, I decided to stage a loud conversation with my maid and see which Kuznetsov brother would take the bait. Of course, Viktor slipped the group and found me in the drawing room, where I knew my father always brought his guests after. It's where he keeps his cigars."

Wide-eyed, I gawk at Mila. "They walked in on you talking about not being a virgin?"

"Bingo. Did I mention that Vladimir Solovev was part of the group?"

I actually smack her arm. "He was not !"

She nods with satisfaction. "So, I got myself out of what would have been an abusive and miserable marriage to a seventy-year-old pervert who was accused of murdering his last three wives as soon as they started to bore him."

"But you got yourself in a miserable marriage with a young asshole," I point out with a frown. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is that Viktor Kuznetsov, asshole though he may be, doesn't have a reputation for mutilating his brides after they've lost their virgin status."

I grimace as unwanted images pop into my head.

"You may look at me and see a kept woman—a vapid idiot who spends her days shopping and ignoring her husband's affairs. But me? All I see is freedom. That's what I set out for when I did what I did. And that's what I got."

Despite myself, I am impressed.

Uncomfortable, horrified… but impressed.

"You want my advice, Nat?" she asks, her voice softening. "Stop looking for perfect. Stop looking for fairy tales. Stop looking for happily-ever-after. You've got your freedom. From where I'm sitting, that's all you need."

"It doesn't feel like I'm free."

"You're free to work where you want and be friends with who you want. You're free to buy what you want whenever you want it. You never have to worry about bills or expenses or whether or not you can afford to send your child to a prestigious private school. You can even have mind-numbing orgasms at the click of your fingers, without the hassle of a relationship to tie you down. What is that if not freedom?"

God, how I wish I could just copy-paste that mentality into my own stupid head. She seems so confident in it, so freed by it.

But it just doesn't feel like me.

That night, I make sure to close all the windows and lock all the doors.

No more midnight visitors for me.