“You couldn’t have picked a more demuredress?” my father says with a nasty look. “You look like a high-class hooker.”
“Better than a streetwalker,” I quip.
He grips my arm tightly and leans in close. “Don’t you dare embarrass me tonight. You are going to smile and be the picture-perfect daughter.”
When I don’t respond right away, his grip turns harder, almost painful. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, father,” I say through gritted teeth, wondering why I even agreed to come to this stupid thing. I’m an adult. Why couldn’t I just say no? Even I don’t want to admit it’s because there is some small part of me that wants him to be proud of me. To acknowledge me as a success. To see me as more than a pawn in his game of political chess.
A man with a disarming smile and graying hair approaches and my dad releases me. His fake politician smile spreads across his face.
“Dima!” he says, reaching his hand out to shake. “So glad you could make it.”
“Of course, of course. Anything for a good cause,” the man responds in a thick Russian accent. “And who is this beauty?” he asks, leering at me.
He’s handsome enough in his tuxedo, but something about him has the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickling. His smile is too broad and doesn’t meet his cold, assessing eyes.
“This is my daughter, Charity,” my father says, giving me a little push forward when I don’t instantly reach for the man’s hand.
I stick my hand out, and instead of shaking it, Dima leans down and kisses the back of my hand with his clammy lips.
“This is the ever-elusive Charity Winthrop. Lovely to meet you,” he says, looking up at me from over my hand like some strange rendition of an old-world greeting. “I am Dima Sokolov.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sokolov,” I say with the fakest smile I can manage as I gently pull my fingers from his hand.
“Dima, please,” he corrects.
I give him a slight nod. “Dima, then.”
“There now, we are all good friends!” My father says, looking between Dima and me like the cat that got the cream. “Dima, would you mind keeping Charity company while I make my rounds?”
My eyes widen at the possibility of being left alone with the stoic man who definitely gives me the creeps for some unknown to me yet reason. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure Dima’s date would prefer him to spend his time with her.”
Please let there be a date, please let there be a date, I repeat to myself.
“Nonsense. It would be my pleasure to spend some quality time with my good friend’s beautiful daughter.”
My father claps Dima on the shoulder, then turns to me before walking away, giving me a warning look that says, ‘don’t embarrass me.’
Seconds later, the band starts playing and I know he’s going to ask me to dance before he does.
“Let us dance, da?” The way his dark eyes light up and trail down my body as he asks makes me highly regret the dress that just hours before made me feel beautiful. Just the thought of having him touch me makes my skin crawl.
Every outward appearance of the man exudes strength and power. He’s handsome enough, and other women definitely seem to appreciate him as he leads me to the dance floor, so why am I so creeped out by the man? I really don’t know, and I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something about him that has every cell in my body screaming to get away.
I push the instinct away and follow his lead, not wanting to cause a scene and upset my father.
“You are a very lovely young woman, Charity,” Dima says, pulling me a little too close to start our dance.
“Thank you,” I reply, pasting on another fake smile. I try to put a little distance between us, but his grip tightens on me, keeping me closer than ever.
Dima flirts with me the entire time we dance until I’m ready to run for the hills from how forward he is being. The man couldn’t be less than twenty years older than me, maybe twenty-five. There is nothing wrong with that, but definitely something wrong with him. Finally the song ends and I’m able to pull away. Dima gives me space but keeps ahold of my arm.
“Let’s get a drink,” he says in a tone that tells me he’s not really asking but commanding.
“No thanks,” I say, gently trying to pull my arm away.
His grip tightens on me, sending up all kinds of red flags. “I insist.”