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ADRIK
Isabella’s new tutor is in her mid-forties, but her tits look brand new. Her plastic surgeon did good work.
Unfortunately, all it makes me do is roll my eyes.
“Isabella is doing wonderfully,” Susan says, chewing on her lower lip in what I’m pretty sure is an effort at tempting me. “She’s a bright girl. She can do the reading pages on her own.”
Isabella is sitting at an adjustable table in the library that has been raised to accommodate her wheelchair. A computer is open in front of her. In her lap is a small keyboard that she can operate even with the limited range of movements in her hands.
Fake relationship or not, Isabella will get a top-notch education while she lives with me. To keep up appearances, of course—no other reason.
“And she’s doing fine with your equipment?” I ask.
Susan nods and steps unnecessarily close to me. “She’s taken to it very well. It takes most kids a few days to pick up how to use the accessible keyboard, but like I said, your daughter is bright.”
I don’t bother correcting her. It would stir up too many questions. And she undoubtedly has a few already, since Emery was screaming in her room when Susan arrived this morning.
“My wife is tough on the staff,” I explained before leading Susan to the opposite side of the house.
Me having a wife doesn’t seem to bother Susan, though. Her breasts brush across my arm as we talk. If that’s an accident, I’m a fucking donkey.
“She has been a little down, however,” Susan observes. “She mentioned something about missing her mother. Now… would her mother be your wife?”
“It would be.”
“And she lives here?”
“She does.”
She frowns. “If you don't mind me asking, why is Isabella missing her if she lives in the home?”
“Her mother is sick,” I explain gruffly. “Bad fever. Quarantined until it passes.”
"That makes sense… the screaming," Susan says.
I nod and Susan strokes my arm sympathetically. Or at least, it starts as something sympathetic. But she lingers too long for it to be a convincing Poor you gesture.
“That must be so hard for Isabella,” she breathes. “And for you. You both must be feeling so… lonely.”
I suppress a smirk. Subtlety is not Susan’s strength.
“Luckily,” I drawl, “I can take care of myself.”
Susan’s face flushes. She doesn’t miss my double meaning.
It's not a lie, either. Matter of fact, I've been doing a whole fucking lot if it lately.
“Well, if you ever need any… help…” She swallows audibly and presses her chest out. Why buy it if you're not going to show it off, after all? “I’m happy to put in some extra time here. Early mornings, late evenings. Whatever you need, Mr. Tasarov.”
It would be so easy to take her up on the offer. To fuck out my anger and irritation towards the woman locked in the west wing of the house.
But even now, staring down at this petite little bimbo practically begging me for sex, all I can think about is Emery.
It pisses me off. I wish she was here, if only so I could point to Susan and say, “See? Is this so goddamn hard? Beg. Beg like she’s begging.”
Not that it matters. None of this does. This will all be over soon.
I pull away from Susan. “That’s enough for today. Anika will show you out.”
Susan looks dejected for only a second before she plasters on a fake smile. “Of course. Until next time, Mr. Tasarov. Don’t forget my offer—if there’s anything I can do to help, I’m yours.”
Then she turns and leaves.
I roll my eyes at her retreating back, then turn to go to my office—only to see Isabella in her chair in the doorway.
“Is Mama sick?” she asks immediately.
Her little face is creased in worry. She looks so much like Emery when she pouts.
But she also looks like… me.
It's ridiculous, but true. Isabella has dark hair like me and somber eyes when she knows she’s asking a serious question. The similarities make me shudder for reasons I can’t explain.
“Were you listening to my conversation, Isabella?” I ask her pointedly.
She hesitates, then nods. “You said Mama was sick.”
I grimace. “Your mother just needs some rest," I say. "She's running a fever, but she'll be better soon. In the meantime—”
“Meantime?” She wrinkles her nose.
“Until she gets better.”
Her lower lip starts to quiver dangerously. “I don’t want Mama to be sick. I want—”
Goddammit. A crying child is the last thing I need right now. I cast around in search of something to distract her. My eyes land on the freezer.
Kids like sweets, right?
"Do you want to go get ice cream?”
Isabella’s wobbly lip pauses. Her hand fidgets around the joystick on her wheelchair. “Can Mama come?”
“Not until she’s all better. But you and I can go. And when your mom is better—” and less of a pain in my ass “— she can come with us.”
I see her weighing it. But when that lip starts to shake again, I make the decision for her.
“Come on,” I say, walking towards the door. “You’re done with school early, and we have plenty of time to kill. Let’s go.”
“What are we going to kill?” she asks, looking worried.
For fuck’s sake. I really don't know how to talk to kids.
“Two big bowls of chocolate ice cream,” I say. “With sprinkles and a cherry on top.”
Finally, she breaks into a shy smile. “I want vanilla instead.”
I stroke the back of her head in a gesture that feels so foreign and so familiar at once that I shiver. “Deal.”
* * *
