Page 33 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“Mr. Vadim no come back.” The stern grunt comes from Ena, who appears at the mouth of the kitchen, his arms crossed over the front of his battered leather jacket. “He busy. I take.”
“You’ll take us shopping?” Magda stands and smooths her hands down the front of her crisp pinafore. Taking It by his mangled head, she warily approaches Ena. As haughty as a little queen’s, her voice reaches back to me, “Can we go now?”
“I guess…” Though I’m tempted to prod Ena for more details. Maybe I would if he didn’t deliberately seem to avoid eye contact with me. As I approach him, he sticks out his hand, grudgingly offering me a single, small object.
“Mr. Vadim said to give you this.”
This being his fancy, smanshy credit card. Only when I scan the name printed on the front, I nearly faint. It’s mine. Or a version of mine, at least:Tiffany Gorgoshev.
“We go now,” Ena says, snapping me from my shock. He waddles to the front door with Magda prancing in tow.
And I wonder if I’m already in far too deep.
* * *
Once we reachthe downtown shopping district, I fight to push all concerns for Vadim out of my head. It’s surprisingly easy once I enter the first boutique, and it becomes readily apparent that, for all of her reserved surliness, Ms. Magda may harbor a secret love for fashion.
More than once, I catch her gazing longingly at the smaller versions of the adult designs adorning various mannequins. After our personal saleswoman shows us to a private dressing room, I decide to put my suspicions to the test.
“Well?” I sit casually on a leather chaise and sip from a glass of customary wine—I’d argue with Vadim about the credit card later, but being married to a billionaire at least on paper certainly has its perks. “Show me your favorite outfits?” I dare her.
And for once, Magda squirms, her lips pursed with unease. I catch her gaze dart to an outfit near the back of the boutique that draws even my interest—a turquoise sweater dress with a bold, black collar and a matching headband.
Shopping for a little girl is a different animal from what I’m used to. Everything is too damn adorable, screaming to adorn tiny limbs. My brain skips ahead, picturing her any one of several designer fashions, complete with a cute hairstyle to match.
Reign it in, Tiffy,I scold myself.
“What kinds of clothing do you like?” I ask, desperate for a distraction.
She shrugs, crossing her arms. “The Robinsons never took me shopping,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “I just got the old clothes.”
I picture the smug Mrs. Robinson with a renewed rage.
“Well, we have the time.” God only knows where Vadim’s gone. “Let’s see what you’ve got in terms of style, kid.”
When the saleswoman returns to our corner, however, I take the lead and point her to the turquoise outfit, much to Magda’s shock. “We’ll try that one first.”
Magda stares on in silence as the woman brings her the garments in the correct size. Her frown remains stubbornly in place as she creeps into a dressing room. But as she reappears minutes later, I clap my hands, pleased.
“You look beautiful! Turn around.” Much like her father, blue is so her color. The hue enhances her eyes and alights the small, fleeting smile that shapes her mouth before she realizes it and frowns in earnest.
“It’s…decent,” she says crisply. “Just okay.”
“Okay,” I parrot with a knowing wink. “We’ll take that one,” I tell the saleswoman without bothering to hear the price.
“Now, what about that one?” I point to a red ensemble hanging across the showroom with an adult set to match. “We can both try it.”
Magda says nothing, but when the saleswoman returns with the chosen clothing, she enters the dressing room beside the one I claim.
And I start to hope that this may not end in flames.
* * *
It isn’tuntil well after nightfall that we return to the house. By the time Ena and I approach the backseat and fish through the mound of shopping bags gathered there, Magda is fast asleep. She’s small enough that I can easily carry her inside while Ena extends our tense truce by gathering up our combined purchases.
She’s so beautiful, I’m mesmerized with every step it takes to enter the house. She has Vadim’s long eyelashes that ghost her delicate cheekbones. Her glossy hair is freshly blown out into soft waves—courtesy of a trip to the salon after shopping—and her newly painted nails cling to It even in sleep. Something tightens in my chest the more I watch her while gingerly stepping over the threshold.
A day spent with a seven-year-old should sound horrifying in theory—had it been with most of my Sunday school class it would have been. But she’s such a strange, unusual creature. I’m afraid I may be as intrigued by her as I am by the figure pacing anxiously in the foyer, his expression constricted.
