Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Mmm,” she says drily, albeit politely. “I remember.”
A small cavalcade of guards stands outside his room, flanking either side of the door. They are familiar to me, as they accompanied him to dinner when we first met.
“Has she arrived?”
“Yes, sir,” one of the men replies.
Vera and I share a look.
Has who arrived?
“I told you I had a surprise for you, Markov,” Petr says, turning to me with bleary eyes and a smile. “I wouldn’t just give you a bottle of vodka, now, would I? Come. Your aunt awaits us.”
He opens the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Vera
His aunt. God. The thought of meeting my father’s mistress churns my stomach, yet here I am, having boldly declared that “people love who they shouldn’t,” possibly alerting my father to my relationship with Markov. But really, what was I expecting? My father has always played by his own rules, always prioritizing his desires over the needs of others. He wouldn’t even permit us to skip a drink and a visit to his suite, let alone forgive his bodyguard for falling in love with his daughter.
As we enter the suite, Markov’s stiffness beside me is palpable. I try to muster some courage, but honestly, I just want this meeting over. We can meet her, then escape back to our lives.
The suite is a testament to opulence, unsurprising given my father’s penchant for displaying luxury and power. The iconic silhouette of the Kremlin frames the backdrop of several interconnected rooms—a private office, a dining area, a sitting room, and a bedroom, all dominated by heavy, imposing leather furniture.
“Now, now, don’t be shy,” my father coaxes. At his beckoning, I notice a woman perched on the edge of a massive leather chair, her back to us. At the sound of his voice, she stands.
I gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth. Beside me, Markov freezes.
“Vera, Markov, so nice to see you,” Irina greets us, her dark gray gown complementing her sleek silver hair. Her smile is warm and disarming.
I’m struck mute, my mouth agape. How? Why? What does this mean?
Markov’s gaze hardens, and he steps protectively between me and Irina. My father retreats to the bar, his back to us, oblivious to the tension. As I move my gaze between Markov and Irina, it becomes evident—one of them is lying. Possibly both. They clearly aren’t related; they met for the first time upon our arrival. . . or had they?
The tension escalates. Thankfully, my father is preoccupied as he pours himself a glass of wine and offers one to Markov and me. Markov gives me a stern look and subtly shakes his head: Don’t drink it.
My father takes a hearty swig of his wine and addresses us. “Vera, it’s because of Markov’s aunt that you have the finest bodyguard available.” It’s possibly the only truthful thing he has ever said.
“I wasn’t aware that your. . . girlfriend was working with us,” I manage to say with a strained smile. “Why didn’t you inform us, Irina?”
My father looks confused. “You know her?”
His response is interrupted by a loud knock. “Yes, yes, who is it?”
“Sir, there’s an urgent matter.”
“It better be, interrupting me like this.” My father frowns and strides over. Meanwhile, Irina’s smile remains unfazed.
He has a hurried discussion at the door, their voices a mix of urgency and concern, before he turns back to us. “Excuse me. My apologies, I must see to something briefly,” he says, his expression etched with worry.
Irina rushes to him. “What is it, Petr? Can I assist with anything?” she asks.
“No, no, just stay with my daughter until I return.” He closes the door behind him, and Irina locks it.
Silence engulfs us, heavy with unvoiced questions. Markov remains tense, his eyes locked on Irina, who still wears her cryptic smile.
“Vera,” Irina begins, her tone now softer, contrasting sharply with her earlier formal greeting. “There’s much you don’t know about your father, about me, and the real reason Markov is here.”
I glance at Markov, searching his face for any sign of denial, but find none. His jaw is clenched; his gaze never strays from Irina as if trying to solve an intricate riddle.
“Start talking, Irina,” Markov demands, his voice low and threatening. “Enough with the charades. Who are you really, and why are you here?”
Irina exhales, her poised demeanor slipping momentarily as she gestures toward a cozy sitting area by the fireplace. “Let’s sit. It’s time we cleared the air. I could ask you the same, couldn’t I?”
“Firstly, Vera, your father and I were more than just old acquaintances, as you’ve been led to believe,” she reveals, taking a sip of her drink. “Go ahead, take a sip. I assure you, it’s not poisoned.”
I ignore the drink, my heart hammering in my chest as I turn to Markov, whose stern expression has not softened. His eyes remain cautious.