My father and Ivan are planning this cursed wedding like they plan their illegal dealings—talking in codes I learned to decipher on my own. Like saying the absolute shit out loud might scare me off.
As if I could run. As if there’s a point.
My fingers curl tightly around the edge of my plate, knuckles whitening. I fight the urge to take a deep breath—one that might crack the cold, expressionless mask my father expects me to wear. My posture is stiff, my back straight, as if I was trained for this table and nothing else.
I sit at the far end, legs crossed tightly beneath my chair, while the cook places delicate desserts in front of me, like it’s just a regular morning.
But of course, it’s a show. A little theater to appease Ivan.
I’ve never been allowed to eat at this table before—never invited to sit here, let alone taste their expensive food.
This table seats at least twenty, but we never host guests. The classic Russian luxury is just for show—to appease mygrandmother, my father’s mother. She and my father care more about their image than their bank account or their lifespan.
Money comes first. Torture, second.
Family? He already has his golden son—Dimitry.
Even my grandmother refuses to acknowledge me and Diana. When people ask, she calls us “the dirty street whores” my father took pity on. Nothing more.
My half-brother Dimitry? He doesn’t even know I’m our father’s biological daughter, too. He’s never done anything to hurt me, but he’s never shown any interest either. He lives a few blocks away with my father’s ex-wife, in an equally luxurious apartment registered under his name—free to do with as he pleases.
And yet here I am. Sitting at this gilded table, listening to them plot my probably-soon-to-be death disguised as a marriage.
I shift in my seat, smoothing the fabric of my pants over my thighs to keep my hands busy. My jaw tenses when I catch Ivan smirking at me from across the table—hungry, amused, deliberate. His hand rests comfortably on the back of my father’s chair, like he already owns the seat next to him. Like he already owns me.
My father doesn’t even glance in my direction.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop it from trembling.
I’m completely invisible to him by now, and for the first time in my life, I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.
But of course, I stay quiet.
I reach for the dessert fork—at least I think that’s what it’s called. It’s so damn small. I have no idea how anyone’s supposed to enjoy cheesecake with something that barely scrapes the surface.
Still, I stab it into the slice next to me.
It’s almost six a.m., and I really need a sugar hit. The cook mentioned the coffee’s imported, infused with some rare beans that apparently pass through a cat’s digestive system.
Right. Fancy cat shit.
Perfect way to start a morning after zero sleep.
“The deal goes on as promised,” Ivan’s voice cuts sharper than before, just as I’m about to take the bite.
I stop mid-motion, cheesecake hovering inches from my mouth.
Finally. Something useful.
“Your regular shipments, once a month. Then you’ll get my men for the extra shipmentsfrom Canada,” he says. “I know you’re having issues with that lately.”
My grip on the fork tightens.
Regular shipments? Extra shipments? My father never deals with weapons or product runs. That’s all on Dimitry now—and he’s not even here.
There’s no way they’re talking about the usual supply.
Which leaves one thing.
