He nods. There are three types of incision used in breast augmentation: inframammary (under the breast), periareolar (around the edge of the areola, a sort of half-smile incision), and transaxillary (in the armpit). The inframammary is most common. The periareolarsometimes affects sensation, and the transaxillary is used only for saline and makes positioning difficult.
Maggie starts clicking through the pages, seeing if anything sticks out. “Can I keep these medical files to review in full?”
“Of course. That tablet is yours.” Ivan checks his watch. “The gala ball is in a few hours,” he says, putting his hands on the sides of his chair as though ready to push himself up. “So if there’s nothing else—”
“Hold up a second,” Maggie says. Ivan waits. She clicks back, then forward. She reads the history again. “It says here Nadia only has one kidney.”
“Yes. She donated the other, what, six, seven years ago.”
“To whom?”
“Her brother.”
“Do you know what he had?”
“The brother?” He looks up as though trying to remember. “Nephrotic syndrome, I think. We ran a urine test and bloodwork on Nadia, of course. She has no signs of it.”
Maggie mulls that over. Something isn’t adding up. “Where is Nadia from?”
“Originally? I have no idea.”
“How did she meet Oleg Ragoravich in the first place?”
“In a club in Dubai. What difference does it make?”
“Having only one kidney could be an issue.”
“Could be, but it’s not. Nadia has been medically cleared. She’s in excellent health. As for the rest of your questions, Oleg Ragoravich is a private man.”
“Which reminds me,” Maggie says. “If he’s so private, why is he throwing a huge party tonight?”
“It’s a ball, not a party.”
“What’s the difference?” Maggie asks. Then, thinking better of it, she adds, “I’d rather not go.”
“You should. For one thing, you’re expected. For another, you will want to see the difference between apartyand aballwith your own eyes.”
“Would it be a cliché to say I have nothing to wear?”
“It would be,” Ivan says, rising from his seat, “if that were true. But come on, my dear, you must know by now that we are prepared.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maggie stares out her bedroom window and watches the guests arrive. A long tent-like walkway has been put out between the helicopter landing pad and the front door. The snow, which was still falling, is strategically gone, though she has seen no one shovel it away. She’d asked Ivan Brovski how they cleared it away.
“Heat coils under the ground,” he told her.
But of course.
Other guests are pulling up in big black cars, either stretch limos or oversize SUVs. The men wear tuxedos. The women wear formal gowns.
Maggie’s bedroom is, no surprise, larger than most apartments. Ivan had shown her the way to her room. The first thing he’d done when they arrived was open her walk-in closet with, she estimated, somewhere between thirty and forty outfits.
“All in your size and style,” Ivan informed her, “including…”
He gestured to the three formal gowns suitable for, well, a ball.
Maggie shook her head. “I’m not even surprised anymore.”
