Page 30 of Bratva Bride
“Not at all,” I answer, sliding into the seat Kira saved beside her, the ocean view stretching clean and blue behind us. “It was only the warm-up.”
Wine arrives, pale gold in thin glasses, and a server follows with a tiered platter of pastries that look almost too delicate to eat. Small talk begins, predictable and flowing—travel plans for summer, a designer trunk show in Beverly Hills, who has a new chef at home and whether he can handle more than soufflé. I listen, nodding where appropriate, letting the rhythm of their banter settle me into the circle. Every ten minutes Kira nudges me with a quiet aside, steering conversation when Tatiana drifts toward dismissive commentary about west-side real estate or the children of people who are not present.
Kira leans in. “Mila’s party was incredible, my daughter can’t stop talking about it.”
Tatiana’s smile tightens, just a fraction. “Children make friends easily. Adults, not always.”
I sip my water, let the silence hover, then change the subject. “This place is beautiful. Did you reserve the whole bay window?”
“Rose keeps it for us,” Kira says. “Perks of being loyal customers.” She lifts a menu. “The crab Benedict is perfection. You must try it.”
A text buzzes in my bag. I check it under the table. Rifat. All clear at school. Mila happy. Will update after lunch. I slip the phone away and glance at the wives’ reflections in the glass. Behind them, a sailboat skims across the bright water. In front of me, the women wait to see if I will reveal teeth or weakness.
I choose neither.
The waiter sets a porcelain teapot in the center of the table, steam curling upward. Around us, the dining room hums with polite laughter and the soft rattle of utensils, but the conversation at our table spirals nowhere meaningful. It is designed that way.
Tatiana flips through the brunch menu as if each page holds a secret code. “I still do not understand why restaurants insist on truffle in every dish,” she says, lips pursed in mild distaste. “Food should not overpower the wine.”
Kira nods enthusiastically. “True, but Rose’s sommelier never fails. Last season’s rosé pairing was divine.”
Lena reaches for her flute. “I could drink rosé all year if they let me. It makes winter feel less dreary.”
Dasha, tracing a fingertip over the rim of her glass, smiles at me. “What is your guilty pleasure, Nadya? Red velvet cupcakes? Champagne at breakfast?”
I keep my tone sweet, resting my hand lightly on the linen. “Three shots of espresso before sunrise. Mila says it makes me faster.”
Tatiana tilts her head. “Faster at what?” Her tone is airy, but the challenge is clear.
“Everything,” I answer, meeting her eyes. “Mornings are a race.”
Kira laughs, filling the pause with a sparkle of teeth. “You must teach me your secret. My trainer insists on green juice, but green juice gives me hives.”
“Green juice gives everyone hives,” Lena says. “Nobody drinks it unless someone is paying them to smile.”
Tatiana stirs her mimosa with measured care, gold ring tapping the glass. “I find discipline solves the problem. A short fast, a long run, and you forget cravings altogether.”
I nod as if interested. “I was a runner in school. Ten kilometers before first bell.”
She marks the information. “And after you met Konstantin?”
“Five kilometers,” I reply. “And only on days ending in Y.”
Kira giggles. Dasha grins. Even Tatiana manages a curve of her mouth, though her eyes never warm. She moves on, dainty fork poised above a pastry. “Tell me, Nadya, which designers are you wearing this season?”
Her gaze drops to my dress, soft blue with a modest neckline. It is expensive, but not flashy, tailored to suggest gentility rather than ambition.
“I’ve been living in Los Angeles long enough to love linen,” I say. “Easy, breezy, and nothing the dry cleaner can hold hostage.”
Tatiana considers, clearly displeased by the lack of brand names. She taps her fork on her plate. “Yet linen wrinkles. A woman should never look rumpled.”
“Wrinkles prove I’m real,” I answer, sipping my tea. “And anyway, they fall out quickly in this heat.”
Kira leans forward, eager to redirect the mood. “Speaking of heat, we’re planning an escape to Tulum next month. You should come. The water is crystal.”
Lena lights up. “Yes. The resort has yoga at sunrise on the pier. Imagine the photos.”
Tatiana lifts one manicured brow at me. “Do you practice yoga, Nadya?”
