Page 29 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“There were far, far richer people at that event than me,” Paul objected. “Anyway,Iapproachedher, not the other way around.”

“I don’t want you getting mixed up with a gold digger, is all. I’m just looking out for you, Paul.”

“It’s not like that, Mary Louise. Cut it out.” He looked around for Tatyana, but couldn’t find her. “Where’d she go?”

“She went to the bathroom,” Rick put in.

Then Paul glimpsed Tatyana standing outside the restaurant, vaping.

20

Paul and Tatyana got home to her apartment slightly buzzed from a lot of wine at dinner. He noticed that she seemed more subdued than usual, and he had a good idea why. She’d gotten the subtext of Mary Louise’s questioning instantly and was, understandably, offended.

“Hey, come here,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I’m sorry Mary Louise waterboarded you.”

“Like I’m interested in your money?” she said softly. “You see how modestly I live. I don’t care about money and fancy things.”

“It was wrong of her to imply that—wrong and unkind and, frankly, unlike her. She knows how serious I am about you, and I guess she was feeling protective. But she shouldn’t have done that. It’s no one’s business how you pay your rent.” He was curious, mildly curious, about that but didn’t want to ask her.

“It’s no big deal,” she said. “My parents help out. I bet I’m not the only twenty-six-year-old in Manhattan whose parents chip in on the rent.”

“I’ve never met your parents. Why do you never invite me to Sunday dinners?”

“I don’t know. It feels like a big step, Pasha.”

“But your parents—are you embarrassed about me?”

She gasped. “How can you even ask that? Of course not!”

“You’re not embarrassed about your family, are you?”

“Paul!”

“I didn’t think so. I know how close you are to them. It’s just a little . . . strange, that’s all.”

“My father’s giving a party next Saturday,” she said. “It’s their tenth anniversary, him and my stepmother. If you want to go, I’m sure he’d love to have you.”

“Of course I would.”

“You can meet Papa and Polina. And they’d love to meet you. They’ve been hearing me talk about you for so many months.” She bit her lower lip.

“Why do you look so uncomfortable?”

She pulled away. “Because I don’t know what you’ll think about my parents.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re . . . a lot.”

“Hey, I’m the Unabomber’s son. I know from crazy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you love me?” she asked.

Why was she asking? “I do love you,” he said. “For sure.”

It was the easiest question he’d ever answered.

*

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