Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Now I know. And I don’t know how I feel about it, whether it changes anything. Because another part of me, one that I only recently realized exists, has always resented him for those few extra months… that little bit of extra freedom that proved so costly for both of us.
If he’d pushed ahead with the engagement announcement on my eighteenth birthday, would I have been home that awful winter night, or would I have been in his home, his bed, far away from my parents’ penthouse?
If I’d already been officially his, would the events of that night have even taken place?
My throat closes up, as it always does whenever I recall that terrible evening, and tension squeezes my temples in a merciless vise. Swallowing against a fresh wave of seasickness, I look down at the table, where my hands are now clenched together, my knuckles white… as white as the faint white scar on my right forearm. With effort, I unfurl my fingers, noting with a corner of my mind that my red nail polish is still intact, still unchipped. Unlike me.
I lift my gaze to Alexei’s face, unshed tears burning like acid behind my eyelids. I shouldn’t say it, I know, but the rebuke blasts from my lips, as illogical as it is revealing. “You should’ve stolen me then, right after that party.”
“Yes,” he says, and for the first time, his onyx gaze reflects pain. My pain. His voice is heavy with regret as he says, “I should have taken you then, no matter how sick you were. Or at the very least, I should’ve stopped you from returning home that winter evening, even though your six months weren’t up.”
Chapter 12
6 Years and 9 Months Earlier, Moscow
“Mama, I’m heading over to Natasha’s,” I say in a falsely cheerful tone as I stick my head into the media room, where my mom is glued to yet another soap opera. “I’ll be home late.”
She glances my way, her eyes red and swollen. Her voice is thick, clearly hoarse from crying as she says, “But you just flew in this morning.”
“I know, but I made plans with Natasha weeks ago. She’s really eager to see me.” And I’m really eager to get out of here.
“Take a few bodyguards with you then.” She returns her attention to the TV.
“I will, of course.”
I can go now, but I hover in the doorway, uncertain of what to do. I’m dying to escape the toxic atmosphere in my parents’ penthouse, but I’ve never seen Mama so upset, nor Papa so enraged and drunk. Rumor has it she’s taken a lover, some government official who’s so high up that even my powerful father can’t take him out without consequences. I have no idea if it’s true, but if it is, I hope that means my parents will finally go their separate ways.
It’s long, long overdue.
She continues staring blankly at the screen as I chew on my lower lip, torn between my desire to leave and my need to comfort her. She wouldn’t welcome the latter, I know—she likes to pretend none of us know about her discord with Papa—but I don’t know if I can leave her like this. If at least Pavel and Lyudmila were here, they could look after her, but they both have the evening off.
Hesitantly, I step into the room. “Mama…”
“Just go,” she says tonelessly, not taking her eyes off the screen. “I want to be alone.”
I want to honor her wish, but some instinct propels me deeper into the room. Approaching her plush chair, I sink to my haunches in front of her. “Mama, are you sure you’re okay?”
Her tear-glazed eyes meet mine, and her lipstick-covered mouth quivers in a forced smile. “Why wouldn’t I be, Alinochka?”
As she speaks, her slim, perfectly manicured fingers play with her necklace, a heart-shaped diamond pendant on a thin gold chain that Papa gifted her upon Konstantin’s birth. It’s one of her favorite pieces of jewelry, and I often spot it on her neck after their fights. I suspect it’s a way for her to remind herself of the good times, before she knew what the man she married was really like.
Carefully, I venture, “You seem a little upset. Is something going on?”
Her mouth quivers harder. “No, no. Just…” She reaches behind her neck and fumbles with the clasp of the chain. “Here.” She grabs my hand and places the necklace onto my palm. “I want you to have it.”
“Oh, um… thanks, but why?”
“I don’t need it anymore.” She attempts that shaky smile again. “I’ve worn it enough.”
Or she’s done trying to pretend that the good times—assuming there were any—are worth putting up with the hell that is her marriage now.
The rumors must be right. She and Papa are finally divorcing, and I can’t say I feel anything but relief.