And again, just like last night, the effect is flawless.
The outfit definitely flatters my figure. I look chic, elegant.
But mostly, I’m relieved to see that my pregnancy isn’t evident at all. My hips seem a little wider, and perhaps my belly isn’t as flat as it normally is, but those are small details that only I’m able to notice, and that’s because I’m looking close for any sign of change.
With any luck, it’ll be a long time before I have to figure out how to hide a growing baby bump.
When I walk out of my room, I come face to face with the same two guards from the night before standing on alert at the corner.
They both turn blank eyes to me. Neither one says a thing.
Does anyone around here know how to use their words?
“Where’s Artem?” I ask.
“Breakfast is waiting in the dining room,” the taller of the two guards says instead of answering my question. He has light brown eyes and a crew cut that makes him look older than he probably is. “Your car will be here in twenty minutes.”
I scowl in irritation and turn left to a huge kitchen with—yet again—an exceptional view of downtown Los Angeles.
A table off to the side has already been laid with an assortment of different breakfast foods. Sausages, croissants, bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon, jams—the works.
My stomach rumbles. But it’s not this food I crave.
It’s the memory of breakfasts I haven’t had for years.
I miss those quiet summer mornings with Cesar. When he’d wake me before anyone else in the house was up and persuade one of the more lenient security guards into taking us into town.
We’d hide in a corner booth and eat hot tortillas, freshly caught fish, eggs that had been laid that very morning.
Life was simple then.
It’s not so simple anymore.
Truthfully, it hasn’t been simple for a long time.
I take a quick glance around, but there’s no one else in the kitchen. Fine by me.
I sit down and help myself to a blueberry muffin that’s softer than a cloud. When I finish that one, I grab another.
I eat until I’m full—crumbling all the empty muffin wrappers together so I can lie to myself about what an embarrassing amount of food I just took down.
I’m drinking juice when the guard with the crew cut walks in.
“Your car is here.”
I sigh and get to my feet. “And where the hell am I going?” I demand. “Or am I not permitted to know that either?”
“Mr. Kovalyov left this for you,” Crew Cut says. He passes me a folded note.
The second guard thumps in carrying a huge duffel bag.
“Is that where you’re going to stuff my body once you’ve murdered me?” I ask pleasantly.
Neither one cracks a smile, so I roll my eyes and open the note that Artem has left for me. His writing is aggressive yet sleek. Captures his personality perfectly.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, either. That’s also right on brand for him. No “Good morning, Esme,” or “Hello, captive.”
Just this:
I want you to go shopping today. The driver knows where to take you. You will be accompanied by Leo and Vlad the entire time. I’ve attached a list of items you will need. See that you get them all. If you don’t, then I will be forced to choose for you. Vlad will take care of payments with the contents of the duffel bag.
I glance at the duffel bag and then at blue-eyed Vlad. “Open the bag,” I tell him curiously.
To my surprise, he starts to unclasp the buckles and unzips it. This is the only instruction he’s followed to date.
When he does, I see stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills stuffed inside. It’s packed to the gills—which means there’s probably tens of thousands of dollars in that one bag alone.
I let out a low whistle.
Vlad doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, though. He just zips up the bag and gestures me out of the apartment.
Apparently, he has exit clearance, because his fingerprint opens the elevator doors. The three of us get into it.
“One happy little family,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath.
My jovial bodyguards don’t even blink in response.
20
Esme
The car waiting for us outside Artem’s condominium building is a luxury sedan limo. Papa used to own a similar one a few years back.
When I duck inside, I find a fully stocked minibar in the center console and a pair of designer sunglasses on the seat next to me.
Vlad and Leo get in the seats up front, leaving me to enjoy the rear compartment in silence.
I sit quietly as we drive through the streets of LA. When we finally come to a stop, Vlad gets out first and opens the door for me.
I step out onto the bright streets of Rodeo Drive right in front of a huge and intimidating Armani store.
“Go on,” he tells me. “We wait here.”
I find myself moving forward into the store.
The whole place drips of money and luxury. The floors are exquisitely carpeted, the air is perfumed, and the salespeople look like runway models.
In comparison, I feel like a hag.
The woman who walks up to me is a foot taller than I am in her six-inch heels. Her blonde hair is tied back in a sleek bun and the stunning ombre wrap dress she’s wearing complements her slender frame.
“Welcome to Armani, ma’am,” she says with a tight smile. “How can I serve you today?”
As ridiculous as it is, I find myself freezing up with self-consciousness.
The truth is I’ve never done much shopping. Deliveries of clothes came into my father’s compound regularly, but I never went out to purchase them myself. Strictly one way traffic.
So now, I’m overwhelmed and out of my depth and my mouth is opening and closing like a fish that’s flopped its way onto dry land.
“Ma’am?” the woman says with a touch of concern.
“I… um… came to… shop,” I say awkwardly, mentally cringing at myself.
No shit, Sherlock. So did everyone else here. That’s why people
