“Not the point. It’s his money, not mine.”
The defiant flash in her eyes is a far cry from the innocent baby blues I thought she possessed on her wedding day. “That is precisely the point. Where’s the fun in having a rich man if you can’t buy yourself pretty things with his money?” She turns and says to the saleswoman, “My friend will be trying this on.”
“No, I won’t. Mila. Mila!” She waves away my objections and drags me to the dressing room. I’m still protesting. “There’s no point in me trying on the dress. I’m never gonna buy it.”
Mila rolls her eyes. “Didn’t Andrey give you a credit card?”
“He told you about that?”
She ssexgs. “No, but I assumed. I got my own shiny black credit card when I married Viktor. It’s part of the package. If you’re gonna be with a Kuznetsov, you’ve gotta
