Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I try to leave before my father can corner me in the hallway, but I’m not fast enough.
“Katya,” he calls, his voice heavy with authority.
I freeze at the foot of the stairs, suitcase in hand. He steps out of his office, adjusting his cuff links like he does every other day, but his eyes betray suspicion.
“You’re heading out early,” he says.
“I like to be punctual,” I reply smoothly.
He eyes my small bag. “That’s all you’re bringing?”
“I’m not planning to stay long.”
His jaw ticks. “Katya—”
“What?” I interrupt. “What words of advice do you have for a happy marriage, Papa?”
His eyes narrow.
“Just remember what your mother would have wanted,” he says at last.
It’s a low blow. He knows it. And I let it land. But I don’t show him the way my chest aches or how I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression blank. Instead, I give him a tight smile.
“I won’t do anything impulsive.”
He doesn’t believe me, but it’s the only honest thing I can offer. I’ve spent hours plotting how thoroughly I can destroy this wedding.
The drive to Isaac’s mansion is long and silent. The tinted windows of my SUV shut out the world. The leather seat beneath me feels colder than ever. Andrei sits behind the wheel, stoic as always, eyes fixed forward. He doesn’t care that he’s chauffeuring me to the end of the line.
I want to text Evie. I want to crawl out the window. I want to vanish. Instead, I sit straight-backed and smiling. Andrei is loyal to my father to a fault, and he’ll report any hint of me bolting.
By the time we pull through the gates, I feel as if I’ve aged ten years. Isaac’s mansion is everything I expected. Cold, grand, and immaculate. The doors open before I can knock. A woman, maybe in her late sixties, stands there with a crown of silver hair and eyes that remind me of my mother’s. She wears a tailored black dress and a string of pearls and doesn’t blink at my unimpressed scowl.
“You must be Katya,” she says kindly. “I’m Maude. Come in, dear.”
I step inside and exhale slowly. The air smells of lemon polish and white cotton, expensive through and through.
Maude takes my suitcase and leads me through a maze of hallways. I try not to gape, but the size of this place is absurd. We pass three sitting rooms, a marble staircase, and what I swear is a library with a spiral staircase.
“Your room is here,” Maude says, opening a door near the end of the hall. “Right next to Mr. Kozlov.”
I pause on the threshold. The door across the hall stands slightly ajar, and the dark, spicy, suffocating scent of Isaac’s cologne drifts toward me.
Of course he put me right next to him. He wants me under his thumb, close enough to kill any real sense of privacy or safety. I guess none of that matters, because we’re supposed to be married in a week. If only he knew that’s never happening.
Maude sets my suitcase down gently and straightens.
“There’s an intercom on the nightstand if you need anything. The bathroom is fully stocked in case you forgot something. The sheets are Egyptian cotton and mighty comfortable, if I do say so myself. The closet and dresser are empty, so feel free to unpack. After the wedding, your personal assistant will move everything into Mr. Kozlov’s room.”
I nod, my throat tight. My wings are officially clipped, the cage door shutting tightly. My only way out now is to drive Isaac crazy.
“Thank you,” I say, because it isn’t her fault I’m in this situation.
She hesitates, then smiles softly. “I think you’re going to be very happy here,” she says with much more conviction than I feel.
I want to believe her, but I’ll never be happy in a prison, no matter how luxurious it is.
When the door closes behind her, the mask drops. My shoulders sag, and my hands tremble. I stare at the suitcase packed with only the essentials. It held a few changes of clothes, some makeup, a toothbrush, and other toiletries. No heels, no cocktail dresses, or any other articles that show I plan to stay.
Yet as I unzip the bag and start to unpack, something gnaws at me. What if I’m wrong? What if Isaac actually wants this and nothing I do changes his mind? What if he outlasts my rebellion and I really have to marry him?
I shove my clothes into drawers and pretend the knots in my stomach are just nerves. Not doubt or fear, and definitely not anticipation.
I’m halfway through folding a black cashmere sweater when a sharp knock splits the quiet. I pause. The knock comes again, confident and deliberate. I already know who it is before I even turn around. I smooth my expression and open the door with a carefully arched brow.