Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
His words were poetic and wholly strange. I’d never heard Timur sound so deep before.
“I really am sorry, Anastasia. I wish there was something I could do because seeing you so sad breaks my heart.”
I straightened from the wall and gave him a smile, although it felt forced. “Thank you, Timur. I know you and Kostya didn’t really have a close relationship, but he meant everything to me.” I looked down at the floor, squeezing my eyes shut as a tear slid down my cheek. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.” A second later I felt Timur brush his thumb across my cheek.
I was so startled that I snapped my head up and took an involuntary step back. He gave me another sad smile and shook his head.
“I really do hate to see you upset. If there was something I could do, I would, you know that. And I know if there was something Vladimir could do, he would as well.” And then he turned and headed back to my father’s office.
Once the door was closed, I lifted my hand and wiped my cheek, not just smoothing away the tears, but also his touch. It wasn’t that I felt uncomfortable, but right now I almost wanted to be invisible.
I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me. I didn’t even want to feel sorry for myself. Maybe I should just let the anger out so I could move on?
That memory played through my mind over and over again. In the beginning, I’d been so obsessed with finding out any kind of truth that it was all I cared about, all I thought about. I ended up asking everyone, praying like hell someone could tell me anything.
The staff, guards, and even continuously pestering my father for more details, hoping there was something he missed and had forgotten to tell me. But it was always the same, with him telling me he didn’t know anything else. And I’d cried as my father held me close and told me he was sorry, that he hated to see me upset and wished he could take the pain away.
I pushed away from the door and made my way over to the rack of clothes to change into. And as if on cue, as if my parents knew exactly when I was free to answer their call, my cell vibrated.
After finding my purse and getting my cell phone out, I saw the text from my father.
Papa: Are you still up for dinner tonight?
I’ll be there with bells on.
I laughed at my own lame response, but I knew my father liked it when I was being quirky.
Papa: Keep that enthusiasm when you get here. Your mother’s had three bottles of wine brought up from the cellar and already finished off one.
I internally groaned at the idea of having to sit through a meal with my mother, who made drinking wine look like an Olympic sport, and if it was, she’d be the reigning gold medalist.
I sent another quick text to my father letting him know I’d be there within the hour, but then just stood there and stared at my reflection, wondering for the hundredth time, how I got from point A to B without losing my mind.
Two hours later I was standing in my parents’ sitting room watching as my mother finished off the second bottle of wine.
My father had taken a call just moments before and I could hear his deep voice coming through the open doorway, his Russian clipped and annoyed.
I brought my glass of wine to my lips and took a long pull, staring at the fire that had just been stoked in the hearth moments before by one of the staff.
Dinner would be prepared and served in ten minutes, and I was counting down the minutes until I could leave and be in the quiet solace of my own place back in the outskirts of Desolation.
I watched as the flames danced over the logs when my father returned. I turned and gazed over my shoulder to watch him slip his cell phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and come over to me. He gave me a soft smile and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close and kissing my temple.
“I’m sorry about that, darling. Work calls at the most inopportune time.” His Russian had gone from harsh and rough when he’d been on the phone to sweet and gentle when he spoke to me.
I was used to him having to leave functions, to stop what he was doing in order to take calls. It just was how things worked.
“Are you ready for dinner? I had the staff prepare a feast so I hope you’re hungry.”
I was about to ask why he’d prepared such a large meal if it was just the three of us, when the sound of the doorbell ringing stalled our.