Page 151 of Dirty Grovel

“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.

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