up and drove me to the airport while I moved on autopilot, unable to do anything as my body was pulled in two different directions.
I boarded the plane to Miami and froze in the service door, my heart beating so hard it stopped me from taking another step.
“Devushka, vy zaderzhivayete ochered’,” a flight attendant told me. When I blankly looked at her, she must have realized I didn’t know much Russian. Though not understanding her wasn’t why I was cemented in confliction. “You are holding up the line,” she repeated softly in English.
Throat thick, I forced my feet down the aisle with Khaos following behind. He’d gotten his own seat. I wasn’t sure if that was allowed either, but rule-breaking seemed to be Ronan’s thing.
I gave Khaos the window seat. It was his first plane ride after all. I rested my head against his soft fur and refused to cry, even as the raw ache in my chest grew heavier and heavier the farther we flew from Moscow.
saudade
(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near something or someone that is distant
Four months later
Warm, humid air breezed into the studio from the open terrace doors, rustling the sheer curtains. Below the veranda lay a white sandy beach, crystal-blue water, and palm trees swaying in the wind.
Belize was gorgeous.
A paradise on earth.
Though even here, my thoughts wandered across the Atlantic Ocean. I wondered what Russia looked like in the summer. My imagination pictured the country covered in eternal ice and snow. Still, Moscow called to me while paradise’s breeze caressed my hair.
“Chop, chop!” Flora clapped her hands in the air, her tribal-patterned poncho rising to show the leotard beneath. “Carlos is going to be here in ten minutes, and you know how much he hates to be kept waiting.”
The stylist standing behind me rolled her eyes and spritzed my blown-out curls.
When I arrived in Miami four months ago, I’d returned to my childhood home even though Ronan had given me enough money to purchase a small condo if I wanted to. But I was compelled to do something before I left The Moorings forever.
Stepping through the front door, I found an empty house and lots of dust. Every piece of furniture sat in the same place, but the memories left behind were silent, like they’d left with Borya and the maids.
I ran a line through the dust on the banister as Khaos and I ventured up the staircase. Reaching my room, I wound the ballerina in my music box, setting her on one last lonely pirouette. Then I dropped my papa’s birthday present from the balcony. The box cracked, the tune ended with a final sad note, and the dancer stopped spinning forever.
She never wanted to be a ballerina anyway.
I reached the door to leave but paused when I saw a small card lying in the dust-free square where the music box had sat. It was the business card the model agent slipped me on the street years ago. I’d hidden it after my papa refused to allow modeling of any kind and then forgot about it.
I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
Modeling was supposed to be a hard industry to get into. Although, I’d either gotten very narcissistic or divine intervention had stepped in. Because here I was now, modeling a campaign for a vegan product. I only went to go-sees and accepted contracts from humanitarian-conscious companies and designers—which my agent hated—but apparently, this new spark in my eyes worked out great for me.
Months ago, I believed I would be engaged to Carter—or even married at this point existing as a jaded housewife. I wasn’t sure how Carter got the memo none of that would be happening, but when I ran into him last week picking up some takeout, he’d dropped his tacos as if the sight of me gave him a heart attack and immediately took off in the other direction.
It wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting . . . but it would do.
No Carter. No working in the sex industry. And no living on pennies. All of those fears had evaporated, but I was still consumed with doubt of another kind.
I closed my eyes as one of the makeup artists applied mascara to my lashes.
“Good god, no!” Flora exclaimed. “Were you not briefed today?”
The artist frowned. “Yes. We’re going with clean looks.”
Flora’s brow rose above her sixties-style round glasses. “What about black mascara on a blonde says ‘clean’ to you? It says ‘slutty club girl’ to