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“Timetable, check,” I retort, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I fumble with the iPad but hit a brick wall – it’s password-protected.
“The password is 2507,” Svetlana says, as though reading my mind.
“Thank you,” I say, more out of habit than gratitude.
Fingers trembling, I key in the digits, relieved when the screen lights up.
I glance up, only to lock eyes with Svetlana. Her gaze is colder than a witch’s tit, piercing through me like I’m some lab rat under a microscope. I swear, if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under by now.
What’s with the death stare? Is it because of what happened the other night?
No, this feels different; there’s an undercurrent of something else…something I can’t quite place. It’s as if she’s sizing me up, calculating, plotting.
And then it occurs to me… Is she in on this? Is this stern ice queen on Aleks’s payroll, too?
Stay calm, Soph. Breathe.
“Inside that device, you’ll find Yulia’s curriculum. All of it. Subjects, texts, syllabi. You’d better be familiar with each and every one,” Svetlana orders, pointing at a stack of books and papers on an antique desk nearby.
I blink.
Are they for real?
The desk is a work of art, its intricate carvings a testament to the obscene wealth of the Ivankovs. Across the room, a full-length mirror stares back at me, its gilded frame echoing the opulence around me.
“And now, time to change. Five minutes. Go,” Svetlana directs, her icy gaze fixed on me.
I try to calm myself, focusing on my breath. It doesn’t do shit. My thoughts drift back to the sight of those three mafia lords out there. Greek gods in Armani suits. Shaking the image away, I scold myself.
This isn’t the right fucking time.
“I said now!” Svetlana snaps, yanking me back to reality. “Yulia is in the kitchen waiting.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath as I step into the dressing room and start to undress. When I step out, Svetlana’s already checking her watch.
“One minute late,” she states, her voice as cold as the Siberian winter.
Are you kidding me?
Her rigidity would make a fucking iron rod feel soft. As I move, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
The uniform fits, alright. But it’s as if I’ve stepped into a damn nun’s habit. Black and white, stark as sin, and cut so it screams “function,” not “fashion.” It feels like a cardboard cutout, all stiff and impersonal.
Svetlana’s already at the door, her stern gaze fixing me like a drill sergeant to a new recruit. “Move,” is all she says, the single word slicing through the silence like a sharpened blade.
As we step out of the room, she points to a door on my left.
“Miss Ivankov’s room.” Then she turns and points to the door directly opposite mine. My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. “And that’s Mr. Ivankov’s.” The revelation hits me like a freight train.
Jesus.
I’m sandwiched between a child’s wonderland and a mobster’s lair.
God help me.
Chapter 24
Sophia
