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I don’t think I’ll like how things end up either way. But I slowly scoot my way across the seat and press my feet flat onto the pavement. I’m hungry and tired. The world spins as I stand up, my knees threatening to give way.
“Come on.” Mikhail tugs on my arm. “We’re running late.”
“I thought Francia was in charge.”
He stops and looks back at me. “No one is in charge of me.”
He says it softly, as if he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear. Probably because Mikhail and I both know he has never been in charge. His entire life has been him buckling under the leadership of his father. Now, it’s Francia. Maybe Alexander. Perhaps both. He’s a little fish in a sea full of sharks.
Which is why my true fear doesn’t kick in until he opens the front door of my stepfather’s house.
It smells exactly like I remember. Like bottled cinnamon and mint. My mom always loved potpourri. As a kid, I tried to eat a glittery decorative pinecone and shredded the roof of my mouth. I ate nothing but applesauce for a week.
The scent of it now makes me nauseous.
I only have a second to take in the staircase, the foyer, a glimpse of the den. Then Mikhail clicks his tongue in irritation. “This way.” He yanks on my arm again, dragging me up the stairs towards Alexander’s office.
The only time he ever asked me to meet in his office was when I was in trouble. Like the time I broke school dress code and wore a skirt that was half an inch too short. Or when I got caught sneaking out to meet a boy Alexander had not expressly approved of.
He wanted to control what I wore and who I spoke to. He wanted to groom me into the quiet, obedient pawn he needed.
Admittedly, he got close. But close isn’t good enough. Not when it comes to crushing a human spirit.
Alexander left a little too much of my willpower intact. By the looks of it, he’s fixing that mistake now.
Mikhail doesn’t knock on the office door. He just yanks down on the handle and shoves it open. And that is how I see my stepfather for the first time in three years.
In the blink of an eye, the door is open and there he is, standing in the middle of his office and staring at me. His hair is a little thinner, but I can tell by the swoop in his bangs that he’s trying to hide it. Otherwise, he looks the same. Dark suit, white collared shirt, clean-shaven face. It’s like no time has passed at all.
Except his mouth is hanging open slightly. He looks almost as stunned to see me as I am to see him. Like he didn’t really expect me to walk through this door today. Maybe he never truly thought he’d win one over on Ivan.
He quickly schools his expression into a much more familiar scowl. “You’re late.”
“Thank your daughter for that.” Mikhail pushes me into the room and slams the door closed.
I look around in vain hope for my mom. Not that she would do anything to stop what’s happening even if she was here, but I can’t bring myself to give up the hope that she’ll finally step up and be the mother I deserve.
I’m still trying to find my bearings and get my footing when Mikhail pushes me again. He hits my shoulder, shoving me towards the chair directly across from the desk in the middle of the room. I barely catch myself from falling.
“Idiot!” Alexander barks. “Careful with her.”
Is that concern in his voice? Is he feeling protective of me? It would be the first time. But at this point, anything is possible.
“She’s valuable,” he continues in a placid drawl. “The more you beat her up, the less she’s worth.”
Ah. There it is.Welcome home, Cordelia. Nothing has changed a bit.
Mikhail shifts behind me and gathers my stringy hair in his hands. He lays it over my shoulder as I fight hard not to cringe away from his touch. “I just have to keep her alive.”
“No, you just have to keep your fucking hands off of her.”
“But she screams so pretty.” Mikhail’s fingers dance over my throat. “How could I not want to hear it all the time?”
My stepfather sighs. “You can hear it as much as you want once she is officially yours. Until then, hands off.”
Finally, my brain unlocks. I clear my throat and lean forward. “But the wedding is—The wedding was called off. It was in the paper.”
I wondered how he and my mother would handle my disappearance. Whether they’d call the police and organize a search or simply try to sweep it under the rug. In the end, there was a small correction issued in the society section of a paper no one under the age of seventy-five read.
