“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll come back when you’ve finished breakfast.”
Francesca is hovering again. I know she means well, but is it too much to get five minutes of privacy in my own home?
“I’m done. Clear everything away except the coffee.” I wave my hand, wishing I could make the food—and the last three days—disappear.
“But… you didn’t eat,” she says.
I know she cares, which is the only reason I’m not already screaming at her to get the hell out.
“I’m not hungry,” I bark. When she doesn’t move into action, I add a sharp, “You’re dismissed.” Her flinch away from my shrill order prods me to tack on a more polite, “Thank you.”
I feel my blood pressure rising as I fight to hold it together. The bang of the door closing behind my departing housekeeper is like a pin popping my balloon—again. For days, I’ve had to buck myself up enough to get through the millions of tasks one inherits when their spouse dies. Funerals and flowers—music and memorials—unwanted phone calls and visitors. I’ve faced them all with the stoic resolve I inherited from my father.
Only when I’m alone do I allow myself to deflate.
The room swims as my eyes fill with unshed tears. There isn’t time for a meltdown. I just have to get through one more day, and then I can escape to France to lick my wounds. One more shitty day—the worst of them all—where I get to publicly play the grieving widow for a man who died with his dick in another woman.
It seems fitting that I get to stick him six feet under today.
A deluge of new designer clothing, shoes, and accessories crowd my walk-in closet. All the designers I rubbed elbows with at The Met the night Tristan died wasted no time in sending over an entire new trousseau. The fact that every article is mourning black ensures no one will confuse it with a honeymoon wardrobe.
God, I hate wearing black. I have ever since my mother died when I was five and my father made me wear black for an entire year. He tried to appease me by giving me black clothes for my dolls, too, but that only made it worse.
Gucci. Chanel. Dior. Givenchy. Halston. Prada.
They’re worth a fortune, and I hate them all, or maybe I just hate what they represent.
I choose the Halston. It’s the only one that has touches of silk chiffon accents with small, glittering gems sewn in. The tiny flare of bling will be my own little rebellion against the barbaric tradition.
I go through the motions, trying not to think of what lies ahead. My shower, make-up, and hair are done on autopilot. Clothes, jewelry, and shoes are meticulously donned until I finally run out of things preventing me from leaving the sanctity of my penthouse.
The knock on my suite’s outer door fills my empty stomach with bile. I’m out of time.
Gordon, my rock, is waiting on the other side of the door when I open it.
“Good morning, Miss Katja,” he says, trying to sound cheerful.
Nothing about these last few days has been ‘good,’ especially not what’s on this morning’s agenda.
“I know it’s going to be a hard day, but you’ll get through. You always do,” he reassures me.
Even though it doesn’t feel like it, I know he’s right. I always get through whatever bullshit is handed to me. Today will be no different.
I’m Katja Fucking Belov.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my small, jeweled handbag in one hand and put my other hand through Gordon’s bent arm. I’m grateful for his supportive pat as we head for the elevator that will take me down to the lion’s den.
Even over the sound of my high-heels on the marble floor, the click of cameras reaches me within steps of leaving the elevator.
Showtime.
Over the last three days of public appearances, I’ve honed the perfect grieving widow look. Sad, but not broken-hearted. I hold my head high, looking into the cameras to give them the tabloid shot they’re looking for. As much as I hate to admit it, Dex’s coaching the night Tristan died has been spot on. Never, not once, have I let them see me rattled.
The sounds of the Thursday morning New York City hustle and bustle greet me as we walk under the portico. I hear my name being shouted from behind the stanchions Mr. Jenkins must have set up to keep the reporters at bay as I walk to the waiting limousine.
I had hoped for a few quiet moments alone to gather my thoughts on the way to the cathedral, but Tristan’s father is waiting in the car to pounce.
I don’t bother to greet him. Instead, I calmly let him know, “You’re in Gordon’s spot.”