“A Girl with Wilted Roses and Bare Feet”
I was behind schedule. I was late again for a meeting with the restaurant management, where my wedding was due to happen in a month. I had to approve the menu for a hundred people today, taste the food, talk about the flowers, and coordinate the seating. Everything rested on my visit.
And I was stopped in traffic, right in the middle of the evening rush hour. I felt so helpless that I was on the verge of tears as I observed the lengthy line of red taillights ahead of me. Each minute I waited caused a persistent ache in my temples.
Sofiya Dmitrievna Gordeeva, 37, owns a chain of five high-end beauty shops called “Charm.” She was businesslike, successful, and tough. She always understood what she wanted from her business, her staff, and life in general. Except for one thing: her personal life.
I had spent ten years developing a beauty empire, and I didn’t have time for men, real feelings, or a family. I felt as though my soul was empty until Artyom entered my life. Artyom. Perfect: polite, attentive, with great taste and a great resume. It looked like fate had finally given me an opportunity to be happy.
I avoided the awful traffic by swiftly turning onto a side route, and fifteen minutes later I was stepping out of the car at the door to the opulent Montblanc Restaurant. My heart was racing, and I had a list of questions for the manager in my thoughts. And I almost ran right into her.
A girl. About 10 years old, barefoot, in a torn frock worn through in parts, with a massive, cumbersome armful of nearly withered roses in her skinny arms. She smelled like dust and being moved.
“Please buy some flowers,” her small voice said over and over again. She gave me one rose, but the bud was already drooping and losing petals.
“No, sweetheart, not now,” I said, trying to get past her nicely but firmly as I rushed toward the door I wanted.
But she was faster; once again she got in my way, and her large, way-too-adult eyes were full of desperate pleading.
“Please. I really, really have to. “It’s the last bundle,” she said, pressing the flowers to her chest. She looked like she was about to cry.
“Oh God, how much longer will this go on? I don’t have time for this at all! came to me in a flash.
“Little girl, you have no idea. I really don’t have any time.” I added, “And besides, men should give me flowers, not street kids.” I sounded harsher than I meant to.
I was nearly through the revolving doors when her voice, which was suddenly stronger and clearer, came up with me and struck me in the back like an icy needle:
“Don’t marry him.”
I froze like I was in shock. I turned around slowly. My ears were buzzing.
“What did you say?”
The girl didn’t blink as she looked at me. Her stern, piercingly clear eyes saw right through me.
“Artyom. Don’t get married to him. He’s lying to you.
Her comments made my skin crawl with cold, ugly chills. The air got heavy and sticky.
“How would you know? How did you find out my fiancé’s name? My voice shook.
“I witnessed it with my own eyes. He’s with a different woman. They are spending money together. Your cash. You both have the same automobile. White. And the left fender has the same dent.
My world became quite little. The dent. Yes, I did scrape the fender last month when I hit a post in the underground garage. We hadn’t told anyone about it, and we hadn’t fixed it yet. How could she have known?
“Did you… follow me?” I took a breath.
“Him,” she corrected me without any sign of shame. “I was following him. He murdered my mother. Although he didn’t use his hands, he still caused her death. Her heart broke with sadness.
I lost my mind. I crouched down to her level slowly so I wouldn’t tumble. I could see every freckle on her pale skin, the dirt on her cheeks, and the scratches on her thin legs from branches.
“Tell me what it means. From the start, calmly. Who is your mom? I asked softly.
“Was,” the girl corrected me, and her voice sounded deep and sad, like a kid. “She was called Irina. She owned a floral shop. Big, gorgeous, and smelled like heaven. And then he got here. He said that his name was Maksim. He brought a giant flower, came every day, and said nice things that made you feel good. “Mom fell in love like a girl.”
“Maksim?” My fiancé’s name is Artyom, nevertheless. For a moment, chilly perplexity made it hurt less.
“Sweetheart, maybe you’re wrong?” Is it a different man?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Her braids moved. “The same one.” This region is where he has a scar on his right arm. She drew a line around her wrist with a delicate finger. “And he always wears a gray suit. Costs a lot. A tie made of silk that is the color of ripe cherry. You gave it to him for his birthday, and he told Mom about it on the phone.” She cried after. ”
My mouth got dry. The tie. Indeed, the tie originated in Milan.
… I’ll stop here to make room, but if you’d like, I can keep going with the remainder (from the fight to the adoption and the “Your Second Chance” foundation) in the same polished and highlighted English.