Dirty Grovel: Chapter 48

The last thing I need is to be faced with another challenge while my head is swimming with doubt.

And there’s no bigger challenge than the appearance of my future mother-in-law, waiting in the living room for me, with a garment bag and expectations sharp enough to draw blood.

“Sutton,” she says, her voice chipping like ice. “You look tired.”

She makes the observation with a curl of her lips that highlights her intense disapproval. I can see all the progress I’d made with her floating away in the wind.

“I haven’t been getting much sleep lately,” I mumble.

“I suggest you correct that, then. You’ll need to look your best in the coming days.”

My jaw tenses with alarm. “What do you mean? What’s coming in the next few days?”

“You are aware that Boris is dead?”

My eyes pop and my heartbeat staggers. “Wh-what?”

“I take it Oleg did not inform you of his uncle’s passing.”

Flushing, I lower my eyes. “He’s been busy.”

Oksana makes an impatient cluck with her throat. “And no doubt, this is another misguided attempt to ‘protect’ you,” she spits in disgust. “Well. So it goes. As per Oleg’s orders, you will not be at the funeral.”

My stomach drops. I don’t see that as the protective gesture Oksana does. I see it as the reprimand that it’s meant to be.

He doesn’t trust me to be able to handle it.

Honestly… fair.

I have my doubts, too.

“I’m going to be his wife,” I whisper softly. “I should be at the funeral. I should be… at his side.”

“I quite agree,” Oksana says crisply. “But Oleg doesn’t want to expose you. He seems to think hiding you away is the only way to get through this funeral in one piece.”

She sighs again, the sound rich with meanings I can’t quite pick out. “But he made no mention of the pre-funeral lunch today. Which is why I’m here.” She gestures towards the garment bag folded over the back of one of the sofas. “I expect you to be dressed and ready by noon. A driver will ferry you over to the Grand Harbor Hotel.”

“I… yes,” I stammer awkwardly. “Yes, of course.”

“You may not be my son’s wife yet, but your duties remain. You will follow proper Russian burial etiquette; you will greet the guests and aid me in managing the waitstaff. It’s the quickest way for you to learn what your duties will be going forward. Now… sit.” She points at the armchair. “There are some things we need to go over before I leave.”

She perches herself opposite me and pulls out a white folder. My name is stamped across the surface. The sight of it makes me want to throw up immediately.

But since I’m positive that Oksana would just count that as another point in the “She’s A Lost Cause” column, I suppress the urge and do my best to concentrate.

An hour and a half later, I stumble, exhausted and mentally drained, back into my room.

I have only forty minutes or so before I have to put on the dress Oksana brought me—because clearly, I can’t even be trusted to dress myself—and leave for the pre-funeral luncheon.

Peeling off my clothes, I take a few minutes for myself. If I’m going to have to endure an afternoon of stares and judgement, I need a little gas in my tank first.

So I slip into bed, letting the soft mattress soothe my aching bones.

Sleep claims me like an old friend.

And I fall willingly into his welcoming arms.

“Sutton, honey, wake up.”

The voice is soft and comforting. Maternal in its sweetness. And still, I don’t want to listen.

I want to sink, hippopotamus-like, under the fog of sleep and stay there for a hundred years.

“Sutton, you’re late. You can’t miss the rest of it.”

I jerk upright like a jack in the box, hair splayed across my face, drool crusted onto the side of my mouth.

“Oh, God,” I whisper as reality screams into my consciousness. “Th…the pre-lunch something… the after-funeral breakfast…”

“The pre-funeral lunch,” Faye corrects softly. “I’m afraid you’ve missed that.”

“Oh, God.” I sink my face into my palms. “What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Faye says. “Oksana sent me over here to fetch you.”

“Oksana sent you?” The color drains from my face. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.” I jump out of bed and nearly trip on my own legs. “Isn’t it?”

Faye cringes. “It’s not… the end of the world.”

“I fucked up! I was so damn tired… I thought if I just lay down for a quick cat nap, I’d be able to deal with all the mourners…” I rush over to the chair where Oksana’s hand-picked dress is waiting for me, still in its body bag.

“Whoa there, Sutton, slow down.”

“I can’t slow down. I already missed the luncheon!”

“You’re pregnant.”

“As if she’ll care!”

I try to pull the zipper down, get it stuck, wriggle it free, try again, all while my heartbeat is pounding in my head at a thousand beats per minute and the world is going frayed and fuzzy at the edges with panic.

“I’m here to help,” Faye assures me as she comes to take over. “But panicking is not the best way to⁠—”

The sound of the harsh RIIIIP feels like a bolt of lightning through the heart.

“No!” I gasp, staring at the zipper that I’ve just pulled on so hard, it’s succeeded in tearing a slit exactly where you don’t want a slit to be.

I stare in horror at Faye, who looks frozen in place for a moment.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Stay calm. Take a deep breath and stay calm.”

“Calm? Calm?! I have nothing to wear now!”

“You have a closet full of clothes!” Faye reminds me. “I’m sure we can find something appropriate. Come on.”

She charges into my walk-in and I follow behind her, still clutching the pathetic remains of what was once a perfect dress.

Leave it to a Palmer woman to destroy something beautiful.

“Okay, let’s see, let’s see…” Faye sings to herself as she starts rifling through the open racks. “No, that won’t work… Too booby… This is for a nun, not a twenty-first century woman… No… No…”

I go down one side of the closet as she combs through the other. We meet at the very end with our hands on the only thing that has an appropriate hem and neckline.

The catch?

It’s pink.

I meet her eyes. “I can’t…”

Faye swallows back a half-wince. “Hey, at least it’s not an in-your-face fuchsia. Or a come-and-get-it hot pink. It’s a subdued, subtle… like, salmon? Yeah. Salmon.”

I cast my gaze around one more time at the closet, hoping that a magical new section full of funeral garb has suddenly appeared like a doorway to Narnia.

No such luck.

I look back at the pink number. “It’s the only dress that will cover my knees and keep my cleavage in check.”

“Then we have a winner!” Faye declares with the fakest enthusiasm I’ve ever seen. “Go and change. I’ll pick out a pair of heels for you to wear.”

By the time I put on the dress and stumble out of the bathroom, Faye has disappeared. The only trace of her is the pair of black Prada heels placed beside the door.

I slip them on quickly and head downstairs.

The dress is tighter than I expected, so it takes me a minute to maneuver the staircase. As I clomp to the front door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the ten-foot mirrors that flank the foyer.

“Oh, fucking hell.”

So much for subdued and subtle. That’s how it translated on the hanger.

But on me? It reads “strip club cocktail waitress.”

The dress is shorter than I expected, the hemline hitting just above my knees. And the scooped neckline only highlights my cleavage, which, thanks to how tight the dress is, has been pushed up to my chin.

I’m contemplating running back upstairs and changing again, when I hear the horn blast from the driveway.

With sweat pebbling my forehead, I rush into the driveway where Faye is already waiting in the silver Audi.

It takes a serious amount of skill to get into the passenger’s seat. Between my heels, my baby bump, and my boobs threatening to jump out of my bodice, I’m winded by the time I’m buckled in.

“You look great,” Faye compliments as I reach for my seatbelt.

“Don’t lie to me. I look like a hooker going to church to repent.” Faye snorts so hard and I groan. “See? You can’t even deny it.”

“That reaction was in no way agreement.”

“I beg to differ.” I smooth out my skirts, trying to pull it down a little. “I’m dressed completely inappropriately and now, I’m going to bring shame and dishonor on the whole family.”

“Will you stop? You’re being dramatic.”

I wring my hands together the whole drive there. All too soon, we arrive at the venue—the solemn and ever so dignified cathedral where Boris’s body will be laid to rest tomorrow.

My throat is closing up as Faye and I exit the Audi and make for the arched entrance that’s flanked by important-looking guests.

None of whom are dressed in any shade of pink.

None of whom are exposing an inappropriate amount of skin.

All of whom can walk perfectly well in their designer heels.

Why the hell hadn’t I thought to bring a shawl, at the very least?

The cathedral looms in front of me like judgment incarnate. I take the stairs slowly, because I’m terrified of tripping.

Once we’re inside, my heels click-clack down the aisle, a staccato rhythm of failure as dozens of black-clad mourners turn to stare.

Their lips purse when they see me. Eyes tighten. Whispers break out.

Their disapproval feels like a physical weight, like a big, flat palm pressing me down into the crust of the earth.

The only person who doesn’t look at me is Oksana.

But only because it’s clear that she can’t bear to.

I do my best to make eye contact, if only to mouth an apology. She had, after all, taken the trouble to hand-deliver a beautiful dress for me. And I’d gone and ruined it with my carelessness and ineptitude.

She may not be the nicest or most welcoming mother-in-law, but even I will concede that, in this case, she deserves an apology.

But she must have some sort of built-in radar, because every time I so much as glance her way, she turns away automatically, as though my mere presence is an affront to polite society.

Her reaction seems to signal to every other mourner present that I am persona non grata. The entire crowd weaves around me as though we’re magnets with the same poles.

I endure exactly twenty minutes of humiliation before my cheeks start to flush scarlet and tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes.

I stop looking for Oleg in the crowd. I’m starting to think it’s a good thing he hasn’t seen me yet.

I tell myself that retreat is the only option. So, instead of sticking it out, I slink to the back of the cathedral and slip out one of the smaller doors, a coward in salmon.

I manage to cajole an idle Bratva driver into taking me back to the house. Only when we’re on the road, hauling ass away from the imposing cathedral, do I text Faye to let her know that I left.

Once I’m back home, I peel off the dress, taking care not to rip this one, too.

But instead of feeling better, I feel ten times worse.

Should I have left like I did? Surely Oleg won’t care.

I’m not even technically his wife yet. More like an incubator for his heir. Something he’s probably started to regret in the last few days.

The crash of the front door distracts me from the pity party I’m throwing myself.

Angry voices echo through the house, luring me from the safety of my bedroom, towards the staircase.

The blood turns to ice in my veins when I see Oleg stomping through the foyer, followed by Oksana, her heels striking the wood hard and sharp.

Their faces are identical masks of anger and frustration.

And I have a very good feeling that I’m the reason why.