Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“I want to do whatever it takes, whatever I can, to help us all.” In short, whatever it takes to make sure we don’t have to go through with this sham of a marriage. I don’t have to be a mind reader to grasp that he hates this situation as much as I do.
“Meet me in the dining room in thirty minutes,” he says before leaving for real this time.
Mikhail stands in the doorway, watching him go. Then he walks over to me and places his hand on my arm.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“You don’t have to be,” Mikhail says darkly, tilting his head as he looks down at me as though I’m a piece of code he’s struggling to make sense of. “You don’t have to pretend.”
“I’m not pretending.”
He kneels beside me, making me think of silly things about the future, about where this could lead. He could kneel, open a ring box, and make me his wife. Yet how could that ever happen, considering who I am? I need to always think of my brother above everything else.
“Mila, what happened with your father?” Mikhail glances at the door again—a reminder we can’t pursue this, despite how badly we both want to—and then wraps his arms around me. When he pulls me in for a hug, I press my face against his chest, not meaning to, but it’s like all the pain is suddenly bursting out.
“He’s just not a good man.”
“What did he do?”
I grab Mikhail’s shirt and lean back, staring up at him, only realizing I’m crying when the world begins to blur. “Please.”
Mikhail doesn’t have to ask what I mean when I say please. He knows I’m asking him not to ask me anything else. He knows it’s the only way I can deal with this.
“Okay, Mila,” he says, sighing. “I’ll leave it be for now.”
I nod, wiping my cheeks. “We need to make a connection between the attackers and … and the Petrovs.”
Mikhail gives me a meaningful look as if saying, So you don’t consider yourself a Petrov? Drake changed his name and claimed a different identity. Maybe I can do the same.
“Let’s get cracking while Dimitri sets up this lunch,” Mikhail murmurs, walking to his computer terminal. His tight posture tells me how difficult it is to leave me sitting here with the emotions locked away inside instead of letting him help me, but the last thing I want to talk about is my impending marriage or my dad. When his phone vibrates, Mikhail says, “Dimitri says it’s probably best if you change to make this lunch seen more real. He says he wants us all to have dinner together.”
“All?”
“You, Ania, me … and Lia.”
“Lia … his girlfriend? The woman he was attacked with?”
“Yes,” Mikhail says.
“Do I need to be there?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to be?”
At Mikhail’s tight, almost angry tone, I turn and look at him. He’s staring at me almost like he’s afraid, which is strange for a man as huge and powerful as Mikhail Sokolov. Then it hits me. Part of me thinks he’s jealous of his brother, a silly part of me.
“I don’t want to marry your brother, Mikhail,” I snap, practically stomping out of the room.
I wait until the last second until I can’t put it off anymore and walk down to the dining room set up for our late lunch. I find it unnecessary to eat this lavish lunch when we’re all going to have dinner together, but I guess the more they see Dimitri and me interacting, the better.
“I made sure to take a long route here,” I say as soon as I walk through the door. “A lot of people saw me wearing this.”
The dress I’m wearing is the last thing I would ever pick for myself: a black silky satin material with a low-cut bodice, and a short flirty skirt. I’m not sure if this is some idea of a joke or if Dad really thinks this will get Dimitri’s attention. While unpacking some of my belongings, I found a suitcase I hadn’t packed filled with slinky, skintight dresses, and lingerie, courtesy of my father, I’m sure. Who else would do something like this?
I don’t catch all of what Dimitri says next. I hear him say, “The food will be here soon.”
All I can do is sigh and nod. The sooner we get this show started, the sooner I can return to my room to hide out until dinner rolls around. We can’t just sit here in silence, so I might as well get the big stuff out of the way.
“Are you angry that I’m helping Mikhail?”
“No,” he grunts. “I’m pissed that any of this is happening.”
“You don’t want this marriage, do you?” I mutter, unsure what I expect to hear when it’s so clearly written on his face.