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Getting back to my search, I change my criteria to somewhere I can reach by bus and then afford to live and work once I get there.
“We’ve got this, little one,” I murmur to the tiny being inside me.
I place my palm on my stomach, something I’ve been doing frequently since the doctor told me I was pregnant. I don’t want to miss a sign confirming I have Efrem’s child growing inside me.
My heart throbs every time I think his name, and that same familiar, hollow ache follows. But I know I can survive this pain—I will survive it—for the good of our child.
I get to work, applying all my time I used to put toward schoolwork as I search for an avenue that will provide me an opportunity without my parents as a crutch. But their deadline of a week is making this challenge more than just daunting.
And by the time a knock drags me from my frustrating research, I have found only a few potentially doable results. My eyes feel tired, and my neck is sore from staring at a screen for so long, but I don’t turn my head to acknowledge whoever is at my door.
“Dani, dinner’s ready,” Dad says from the threshold, his voice as even as if this were any other day of my existence.
“I’ll be right down,” I say, training my eyes on my screen.
“We have company tonight,” he says pointedly. I know that’s code for “change into something decent,” aka, not my pj’s I’ve been wearing for the last two days while I’ve hunkered down to do my research.
“Understood,” I say, trying to maintain a passive tone like his.
Of course, my parents need to keep up appearances and have guests over for nice dinners to prove that they’re recovering from their son’s death and that nothing else in their lives is out of the norm.
I sigh heavily, turning to look at my bedroom door once my dad closes it behind him. I really don’t want to do the whole perfect-daughter charade today. But I will because I doubt my parents would let me stay, even for a week, if I became a problem. They’ve made it clear that my needs come in second to their public image. Especially when Dad’s on the cusp of being elected.
And from the numbers, I imagine he will be unless something massively destructive to his image comes to light. Which is why I’ve become their dirty little secret. Apparently, a pregnant teenage daughter trumps doing business with the leader of a violent Russian mafia group in their minds.
Though I suppose Mikhail is far better at hiding his secret than I’ll ever be at hiding mine.
Closing my computer, I rise and head to my closet to find something appropriate to wear for dinner. I pick a loose-fitting, muted tan sweater and black jeans. I can’t stand the bright, happy colors I used to prefer anymore. They give me migraines.
I run a brush through my hair, checking to make sure I’m put in place enough to share the table with my parents’ dinner guest, then I head downstairs.
“Ah, Dani, good. I was just coming to see if you’d gotten lost,” Dad jokes from the doorway to the dining room. His overly cheerful tone tells me our guest is already here—and probably waiting for me to eat.
Oops.
To reinforce the message, Dad holds out his arm to corral me toward the table. It takes considerable effort to bite back my irritation. At one point in time, I would have skipped dinner all together, preferring to come down for a midnight snack rather than deal with my parents.
But I starved my child of nutrients for too long, and until the doctor says I’m back to a healthy weight, I’m just going to have to endure it. Picking up my pace, I give my dad a sidelong glance and enter the dining room.
My stomach drops as I look toward the table, and my eyes land on the dark and probing gaze of Mikhail Sidorov. I stop in my tracks, for once, unable to keep up appearances. And the knowing smile that spreads slowly across his face makes me want to vomit.
“Hello, Dani,” he says, his voice as oily and smooth as ever, his accent somehow adding to his ominous greeting, though the lilt always sounded so sexy coming from Efrem.
“What is he doing here?” I ask, my voice hoarse with anxiety.
“Come sit, Dani,” my dad says, his arm wrapping around my shoulders as he nearly forces me into the chair across from Mikhail.
My mom already occupies the chair next to the dinner guest, subtly hinting at where her loyalty lies. And Dad takes his seat at the head of the table, his smile tight yet attempting congenial.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Dani,” Mikhail says, his expression warming as his eyes dance with dark pleasure.
“I wish I could say the same,” I snap, in no mood to be putting on appearances when it seems I’m the last one in the room to know just what the hell is going on. Because this doesn’t feel like a friendly dinner.
It’s a trap.
“Dani, mind your manners,” Mom says. “Mikhail, please, enjoy the meal before it’s stone cold,” she insists, gesturing to the ravioli before him.
Grinding my teeth, I force my eyes down to my plate and start to eat along with the rest of the table, though I’ve completely lost my appetite.
