“Of course it’s you. Whose number did I dial, if not yours?” My mother’s voice slices through the line, sharp and annoying all at once. I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling of my home office, hoping God gives me strength or strikes the phone tower down. “Твой отец тоже был не очень умным, жаль, что ты пошла в него.”
(Your father wasn’t very smart either. It’s a pity you take after him.)
That gets a crooked smile out of me. “Ой, мама, это ты?”
(Oh, Mum, is that you?)
“Taisiya Ivanovna Orlova.”
“Wow, the full government name. We’re serious today.” I mutter while turning back to my laptop, where Liam’s latest Instagram post is still up. One picture of Emilia stirring something on a stove. Another of her curled up against him, nose in a book.
I read the book title and Google it. Smut, obviously. Of course.
I would expect nothing less, truly.
The comments are turned off. I make a mental note to commend Liam for it when it’s a ‘reasonable‘ time in the morning (Emilia’s words, not mine). But his fan accounts are already reposting, and their comment sections are another story,
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It only takes a scroll and a half before I sigh. The whole point of this campaign was to clean up his image – not to turn Emilia. into some manipulative siren who tricked poor Liam into playing house.
Which is hysterical, considering Emilia wouldn’t know how to seduce a plant, let alone a man.
1, unfortunately, know this firsthand.
“Ты знаешь, какой сегодня день?” my mother cuts in.
(Do you know what day it is today?)
I fire off a draft of my new Emilia–rehab pitch to Florence, then check my messages with Adrian. Emilia introduced us when we decided to go scorched earth on that walking dumpster fire, Stone.
I’ve insulted him so thoroughly I’ve had to start recycling phrases. Scum, rat, emotional garbage fire – you get the idea.
Adrian’s a godsend, though. Finally, someone who thinks insomnia is a lifestyle. I can send him a forty–page PDF at 3 AM and he’ll send back comments by 3:05.
I glance at the clock. “It’s 2 AM on a Thursday. Which means 9 AM in Moscow. Unless the Kremlin collapsed, I doubt it’s urgent.”
Her exhale is loaded with judgment. “It’s 2 AM and you’re alone. Working. Women your age are with their husbands, Making babies. Planning meals. Building families. But you’re in your office. Looking at that glowing screen. No man. No child. Just
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snap. The fake sweetness drops. “You’re calling because I forgot to send Dad the money, right? I’ll transfer it. And yours too, for whatever designer nonsense you’re planning to waste it on. But unless the world ends, don’t call me again. I’m too busy financing your lifestyle to play perfect housewife for an imaginary husband.”
“You ungrateful little- how dare you speak to your mother like this-”
“Хорошего дня, мам. Не забудь не звонить. Хотя, я и не жду, что ты будешь меня слушать.”
(Have a good day, Mum. Don’t forget not to call. Then again, I don’t expect you to listen anyway.)
I hang up before she can finish the sentence.
In true Orlova fashion, she calls back immediately.
I answer again, voice tight. “Yes? It’s Tessa sp-”
“Taisiya, Anastasia is getting married.”
1 blink. “What?”
She repeats it like it’s common knowledge. I stare at my phone, waiting for the punchline. “Are you sure the poor man double- checked who he’s marrying? Maybe he meant to propose to someone else.”
My mother says nothing.
I rub my temple. “Anastasia is a horrible person.”
And that’s me being polite. My cousin – who only gets away
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with being called pretty because she looks like me the most vindictive people I’ve ever known.
–
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– is one of
In high school, she slept with guys I was seeing – don’t let anyone tell you that’s a coincidence. She stole my skincare, started a rumour I had HIV when I caught the measles, and once mixed hot pepper into my medicated cream.
That wasn’t even the worst of it. She told my crush I had schizophrenia, and sent a school–wide video of me running half- naked from a cockroach. Years later and people still bring it up.
“She’s getting married,” my mother says again, with that familiar bite in her voice, “while you can’t even keep a man long enough to consider you a serious option.”
That one hits. Hard. And I hate that it does.
“I’m not interested in-”
“You will not embarrass us further. You’ll attend the engagement party and bridal shower next week.”
“I have work, Mum. I’m running a-
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