Page 66 of Baby for the Bratva King

And if there’s one person more powerful in New York than him, it’s me.

16

SASKIA

I unwrap the complimentary Harrod’s lollypop on the plane, struggling to get my mouth fully around it.

The cabin is silent, incoherent messages occasionally coming through from the crew as they communicate before take-off.

I watch the city sparkle in the distance while sucking on my lollipop, pleased with my purchases this afternoon. Fleur will be over the moon about the King’s guard magnet I bought for her, along with the Ann Boleyn book I came across at the Tower of London Visitor Center.

As it turns out, money comes in handy when you want to sightsee. Felix hired a chauffeur for us, and we covered quite a lot of things, including the London Eye and the Tower of London, as well as some shopping to finish off.

I trail my finger over the book I bought for Fleur—or rather Felix bought for her. It feels wrong. This trip didn’t cost me a cent.

I feel Felix’s eyes on me across the cabin. We hold eye contact for a while, and I’m not sure how to feel. He’s giving me everything my father never gave me. The vacations, spoiling me with a good time; now he’s looking at me like I’m worth something, and it’s not because of how I look.

It goes beneath that. I was dancing half naked in the guest bedroom and he looked hypnotized.

Sometimes he looks at me with pity. I never wanted to be seen like that, but maybe I really am helpless.

He makes me feel special, and that’s all it takes for me to crack, to fall head-over-heels in love with someone who will never understand how it feels to be a passing thought in someone else’s life. Felix is the earth and I’m the moon rotating around him.

I open the book I bought for Fleur, running my finger over Ann Bolyn’s broken face. Her fate was in King Henry’s hands. He gave the order, and she was beheaded, wrongly accused of treason and adultery. And all because what? She ‘failed’ to produce a son for the king?

I often wonder if things would have been different if Fleur and I were boys. Would we have been worthy of our father’s love then?

I flick through the pages as the plane takes off, shooting into the sky, the engines roaring. The person a row over from me picks up her champagne, worried about it sloshing over the edge as we hit some turbulence. The problems of the rich.

Oh, I wish I was so fortunate.

I can dance off the feeling, envision myself breaking free from the invisible shackles, but I’ll never truly be free.

Not the way other people get to be.

The house is cold when we return, the echoes louder than usual.

My heels clop on the floor, amplifying my shaky steps.

“Get to bed immediately,” says my father as he shuts the door behind us. He flicks on a light, golden light spilling down from the chandelier.

Fleur and I share a look. Our father had a successful night. He won over Jude Swindon, coming home with several important contacts that he can use to elevate his career, like it isn’t already elevated enough.

“Did you have a good evening, father?”

My father looks over his shoulder, his face colder than the temperature of this house. “Yes.”

Where is my praise? I entertained Jude Swindon all night. I let the cameras take pictures. I suffered in silence for five fucking hours, wearing the tight-fitted dress he put me in. I smiled through the derogatory comments, I sat with my feet together, chin high, shoulders back, just like he told me to do, and I get nothing?

“Up to bed,” says my father. “I won’t ask you again.”

A tear falls down my face. I wipe it away before he notices.

I catch Fleur looking at me, her jaw tight. She shakes her head.

It’s pointless crying over spilled milk, but every time my father meets me with coldness, I grieve the version of him that never existed. He floats away more each day from the expectations I hold in my head.

“Chasing the receding tide will never make you happy,” consolidates Fleur when he walks away, leaving us alone in the lobby.