Page 2 of Gilded in Blood

“Unfortunately, I’m broke in my dreams too,” she responds, and they both burst into laughter.

As they laugh, I watch them. To me, this dress is ordinary. To her, it's something worth dreaming about. I can't remember the last time I looked at a piece of clothing and wished for it.

Maybe because I've never had to. The realization leaves a strange taste in my mouth. There are so many things I've always considered normal that someone else might see as a luxury.

“You don’t look like the type who ends up in here,” the blonde says when she finally stops laughing.

A tired laugh escapes me. “Yeah, well… tonight proved otherwise.”

She smiles. “Well, I think you did the right thing. Men who can’t take no for an answer deserve a bottle to the skull. Or worse.”

The brunette nods, lighting a cigarette she somehow smuggled in. “Aren’t all men like that, though? Is there actually any bloke out there who hears ‘no’ and fucking listens?”

I look at them, saying nothing. My mind drifts to my brothers, Artyom and Mikhail. To Calina’s husband, Maxim, who looks at my sister like she hung the moon and stars. I know what evil men look like. I grew up with one for a father.

But I also know there are men who respect a woman’s choice, who dote on their wives, who protect instead of destroy. I don’t say any of that. It would sound naive in here, privileged.

Instead, I just watch them, the cheap, worn dresses, the smudged makeup, the exhaustion etched into their faces, and wonder what their lives have been like. There’s a kind of weariness that doesn’t come from one bad night. It comes from a pattern.

They look like hookers. The thought slips in before I can stop it. Only God knows the type of men they’ve been exposed to. Did they stop saying no at some point because it stopped changing anything?

Why are they here? Did they try to defend themselves like I did Sarah? I’m about to ask what they’re in for when heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

“Milana Morozov!” the guard barks, rattling the bars. “Bail’s paid. You’re free to go.”

Relief floods me so fast my knees almost buckle. I push to my feet, smoothing my dress and shrugging my blazer back on properly. “Thank you,” I tell the women, offering them a genuine smile. “Take care of yourselves, okay? I hope you get out soon, too.”

The blonde waves lazily. “Stay out of trouble, rich girl.”

I step out of the cell, my heart heavier as I think about the women and the hand life has dealt them. I shrug off the thought, remembering Mikhail’s words: “You can’t help everyone, Milana.”

Sarah must have come through. She was probably panicking the whole time. I collect my purse, phone, and the rest of my things, signing whatever forms they shove at me without really reading them.

The station lights feel too bright after the dim cell. I push through the front doors into the cool Manchester night, scanning the street for my roommate’s familiar face.

No Sarah.

Strange. I turn in a slow circle, heels clicking on the pavement, but the sidewalk is mostly empty except for a couple of late-night stragglers. I pull out my phone to call her, and my stomach drops when I see dozens of missed calls from my brothers. Mostly from Mikhail.

Shit.

My brothers hate it when they can’t reach me. It was one of the few conditions they all agreed to when I begged to study in England: I stay available. Twenty-four seven. No excuses.

When I got the admission to study at the University of Manchester, my brothers refused at first. Said it was too far. Too unsafe. Too many things that could go wrong with me that far from home.

In the end, they only agreed after a lot of persuasion from me and my elder sister Calina, and even then, it came with conditions. I come home for every break and holiday. I answer their calls. Always. No excuses.

My brothers mean well. I know they do. I love them for it. But their protection often feels like a cage––choking, overbearing. Sometimes they act like I’m something fragile that will break if they look away for too long.

Manchester has given me space to breathe. To be Milana without the constant Morozov weight pressing down on me. Room to exist without someone watching every step I take or deciding what’s safe before I’ve even had a chance to think for myself. Room to make my own mistakes… like smashing a glass over an asshole’s head.

Trying to come up with an excuse for why I missed their calls, I decide to call Mikhail back first. I would rather deal with him than Artyom. He answers on the first ring.

“Milana.” His voice is low, sharp, the kind of calm that means he’s furious. “What the fuck?!”

I wince at the harshness in his voice. “Good to hear from you, too, brother.”

He ignores my sass. “What the hell were you thinking? First, you’re at a damn club in the middle of the night, and then you get yourself arrested?”