Page 49 of Cruel Demands

“Taylor,” Anya says through the door, softer now. I ignore her and start digging through my dresser for clean tights, the stench of cigarettes clinging to the pair from last night. “I didn’t mean spoiled.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I meant reckless.”

“You meant spoiled.”

She goes quiet. I yank the door open, blouse clutched in one hand. “Do you know how much my parents spent for me to come here? How many extra shifts my mom picked up? My dad’s restaurant is still open, but every month it stays open costs them more money, and no one will offer enough for it to clear the debt. They’re drowning, but they still wanted me to have this opportunity. Which means I had better not fuck it up. Do you know all that?”

Anya says nothing. She’s watching me with a slight pout to her perfect lips, her delicate bone structure made harsher by the shadows beneath her eyes from staying awake waiting for me. I’m gaining steam now, angry with the world and making Anya answer for it.

“And I’m here. I’m here in Moscow, taking pictures of pretty buildings and drinking too much and going home with men I shouldn’t because I got an internship and wanted to feel normal for once, I guess. A stupid internship that probably doesn’t even matter. And my parents are at home acting like it’s all worth it because I’m supposed to be doing something impressive.”

My voice breaks on the last word. Embarrassed, I bury my face in my blouse and pull it over my head. “I already feel like a spoiled brat,” I say. “I feel like one all the time. I really don’t need you to stand there and say it for me.”

Anya’s voice is very quiet when she says, “I did not know.”

“No one knows,” I tell her while I pull on the clean tights, no longer worried about modesty.

She looks away anyway, her hands behind her back and her eyes fixed on the wall. “You could have told me.”

“When? Between vocabulary drills or during commercial breaks? Or maybe when you were telling me I should give Petyr a chance?”

“That is not fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I am sorry,” she says.

I laugh once. It sounds awful. I step into my skirt. My hands shake as I fasten it. “You were right.”

“No, I was not.”

“You were.” I grab my purse. “That’s the worst part.” I grab Anya’s shoulder so she will look back at me now that I’m dressed. She looks up, tears wobbling in her blue eyes, which makes me feel meaner than anything she said. “You were right to be scared, and you were right that it was stupid and spoiled. You’re a good friend, okay? I need to go be impressive now.”

Neither of us smiles.

My phone buzzes on the bed, and for one bright second, I feel a zap through my stomach, thinking it’s Mikhail telling me he made a mistake. That of course he wants to see me again. That he hopes I made it home safely.

I let go of Anya’s shoulder and rush to my phone.

It is not Mikhail.

It is Pavel.

I am waiting downstairs whenever you are ready, Miss Hayes.

I stare at the message. Of course he stayed. Mikhail said the driver would wait and take me wherever I needed to go, and apparently men like him say exactly what they mean even when they’re busy telling you they never want to see you again.

He is perfect, and he doesn’t want to see me ever again. Which is also just perfect.

Anya looks at my phone. “Who is that?”

“The driver.”

Her brows lift. “His driver?”

“Yes.”