“A Girl with Wilted Roses and Bare Feet”
I was running late. I was late again for a meeting with the restaurant managers, where my wedding was going to happen in a month. Today, I had to approve the menu for 100 guests, test the food, talk about the flowers, and plan the seating. My visit meant everything.
And I got stuck in traffic during the busiest time of the day. I was about to cry because I felt so helpless as I saw the long line of red taillights in front of me. Every minute I waited made my temples hurt.
Sofiya Dmitrievna Gordeeva, 37, is the owner of “Charm,” a chain of five high-end beauty stores. She was tough, successful, and businesslike. She always knew what she wanted from her life, her business, and her employees. There was only one thing that was different: her personal life.
I had built a beauty empire over the course of ten years, and I didn’t have time for men, true sentiments, or a family. Before Artyom came into my life, I felt like my soul was empty. Artyom. Perfect: well-mannered, attentive, with good taste and a strong resume. It seemed like fate had finally given me a chance to be happy.
I quickly turned into a side road to avoid the terrible traffic, and fifteen minutes later I was getting out of the car at the door of the fancy Montblanc Restaurant. I was nervous and had a list of questions for the manager in my head. And I was so close to running into her.
A girl. She was perhaps 10 years old, barefoot, and wearing a ragged dress that was worn out in some places. She had a huge, heavy armful of almost-dead roses in her narrow arms. She smelled like dust and being transported.
“Please buy some flowers,” her little voice begged over and over. She offered me a rose, but the bud was already drooping and losing petals.
“No, sweetheart, not now,” I replied as I ran toward the door I needed. I tried to be pleasant but stern.
But she was faster; once again she got in my way, and her big, grown-up eyes were full of urgent begging.
“Please. “I really, really have to,” she replied, holding the flowers to her chest. “It’s the last bundle.” She looked like she was going to cry.
“Oh God, how much longer will this last?” I don’t have time for this at all! came to me in a flash.
“You don’t know, little girl. I truly don’t have any time. I also said, “And men should give me flowers, not street kids.” I didn’t want to sound so nasty.
I was almost through the rotating doors when her voice, which had suddenly gotten stronger and clearer, rushed up behind me and hit me in the back like a cold needle:
“Don’t marry him.”
I was so shocked that I froze. I turned around carefully. My ears were ringing.
“What did you say?”
The girl didn’t blink as she glanced at me. Her severe, piercingly bright eyes stared right through me.
“Artyom. Don’t marry him. He’s not telling the truth.
Her words made my skin crawl with cold, unpleasant goosebumps. It became hard and sticky.
“How would you know? How did you learn the name of my fiancé? My voice shook.
“I saw it with my own eyes. He’s with another woman. They are spending money with each other. Your money. You both own the same car. White. The left fender also has a dent.
My world become quite little. The dent. Yes, I did scrape the fender last month when I hit a post in the garage below ground. We hadn’t told anyone about it yet, and we hadn’t rectified it yet. How could she have known?
“Did you… follow me?” I took a breath.
“Him,” she corrected me without any show of shame. “I was following him. He killed my mom. He killed her even though he didn’t use his hands. She was quite sad.
I went crazy. I cautiously crouched down to her level so I wouldn’t fall. I could see every imperfection on her pale skin, the grime on her cheeks, and the scratches on her skinny legs from branches.
“Explain what it implies. From the beginning, gently. Who is your mother? I asked in a gentle voice.
“Was,” the girl said in a sorrowful, deep voice, like a kid. “Her name was Irina. She had a shop that sold flowers. It was big, beautiful, and smelled like heaven. And then he came here. He told me his name was Maksim. He came every day with a huge flower and spoke wonderful things that made you feel good. “Mom fell in love like a girl.”
“Maksim?” Still, my fiancé’s name is Artyom. For a moment, the cold confusion made it ache less.
“Maybe you’re wrong, sweetheart?” Is it a different guy?
“No,” she responded and shook her head. Her braids moved. “The same one.” He has a scar on his right arm in this area. With a delicate finger, she drew a line around her wrist. “And he always wears a gray suit.” A lot of money. A cherry-colored silk tie. He told Mom about it on the phone after you gave it to him for his birthday. ” She cried thereafter. “
My mouth got dry. The tie. The tie did come from Milan, that’s true.
… I’ll stop here to make room, but I can keep going with the rest (from the fight to the adoption and the “Your Second Chance” foundation) in the same polished and emphasized English if you’d like.
