The medicine.
My father’s prized little secret. The one thing he never lets out of his hands. The one thing he makes sure I never run out of—because without it, he loses the last bit of control he has over me.
And now he’s handing it over to Ivan?
What the hell ishegoing to do with it?
He’s not even selling it.
Unless...
He plans to control it.
Or worse—keep his bride alive just long enough to enjoy the show.
He’s no saint. No fucking way.
God, I wish hewereselling it. At least then I’d have a chance at getting it myself—without crawling through either of their shadows to survive.
“That’s the deal,” my father says, nodding once—wearing that smug, satisfied grin like it’s a medal. That arrogant piece of shit.
“We close the marriage with a small ceremony here. I’ll announce she’s my daughter then, just to justify the deal between our families. After that, she’s yours to handle. She’ll be registered as a Petrova under your name.”
I never wanted to be a Morozova.
Now he’s handing me a whole new last name to hate.
And the fact that he already used the feminine form—Petrova, notPetrov? He’s already sold me.
I blink down at the forgotten fork still sitting in my hand. The piece of cake I was about to eat suddenly looks disgusting. I drop it back onto the plate and stare at the cup beside it—the stupid luxury cat-shit coffee. Wondering if it’s worth forcing down when my throat’s already tight.
“When?” Ivan asks, his voice cutting like a blade. His eyes slide to me with a hungry look that makes my spine stiffen. I swallow hard.
“If it’s this week, I’ll stay. No point flying back to Miami.”
I think he says something else—low, to my father—but I can’t hear it over the pounding in my ears.
My heartbeat is too loud now, my palm is starting to sweat as my chest is tightening.
I need that fucking medicine.
Now.
My hands clench into fists under the table, knuckles pressing into the fabric of my pants.
There’s no time left to visit Mom first.
I’ll take care of this meeting as soon as possible, grab Diana, andstop by the hospital on the way out—just to see if she’ll come with us.
“Sounds like a plan. Saturday it is.”
My father’s voice cuts through the air.
Myair.
It vibrates through my chest like a death sentence.
Shit.
