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)
Her brows pull together. “Already?”
“Papa’s orders. He wants us to ‘build rapport’ before the wedding.”
“Rapport?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.
“His word, not mine.”
Evie’s expression darkens. “He really won’t let you say no?”
“No,” I whisper. “He won’t.”
A heavy silence settles over the table.
Evie picks at the edge of her napkin.
“You don’t have to go,” she whispers conspiratorially. “We could run away.”
“He’d find us,” I respond glumly.
She looks up, voice thick. “What if we made it impossible?”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “He’d hurt you. And I won’t let that happen.”
I know the truth. Apart from Isaac’s refusal, there’s no way for me to get out of this. And I’m not letting my best friend put herself in danger because of it.
She squeezes my hand back tightly. “Then let me help. Call me. Text me. You don’t have to be strong the whole time.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
I shake my head. “If I let myself fall apart, I won’t come back from it.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Then she nods.
“Okay. Then I’ll hold the pieces until you’re ready.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and look away.
Evie doesn’t say anything else. She just flags down the server, orders another round, and reaches into her purse to pull out a tiny bottle of nail polish.
I blink.
“Are you seriously doing your nails right now?”
She shrugs. “Your wedding’s in nine days. If I’m starring as maid of honor in a hostage situation, the least I can do is sport a decent manicure.”
I start laughing so hard I cry.
For the first time in days, I feel like I’m allowed to. With my arranged marriage to one of the Bratva’s most feared men days away, I down another shot of tequila. It scorches my throat, but it’s not enough to burn away the dread clawing inside me.
I stumble into the bathroom, phone in hand, and scroll to the number my father demanded I save. Isaac Kozlov. My future husband. My future captor.
I’d sworn I wouldn’t text him. That I’d play the perfect daughter until I could find my escape. But the tequila hums in my blood, loosening my restraint and sharpening something reckless. If I was going to sabotage this marriage, why not start now?
You’re old.
The three dots appear immediately.
Is that a problem?
I smirk, my heart pounding with dangerous satisfaction.
I’m sure it is for the women you sleep with.
His reply is sharp, like steel hidden in velvet.
I’ll have you know I have no complaints. Only begging.
Heat pools low in my stomach. Damn him.
I don’t believe you.
This time he makes me wait. Long enough for my pulse to trip over itself.
Care to find out firsthand?
My breath catches. What an arrogant man.
I’m good. Wouldn’t want to wound your fragile ego.
His next message slices me open.
The only fragile thing here will be your body after I’m done with it.
My thighs clench, shame and desire tangling until I can’t tell which one is winning. The tequila whispers that I like the danger. That maybe I crave it.
Another message buzzes before I can answer.
Flustered, my little bride?
I grit my teeth, typing with defiance I don’t quite feel.
No. Just shocked at how confident you are.
The pause before his reply drags, stretching the tension tight. Then his words land like a promise and a threat all at once.
Confidence isn’t necessary when you already own something. You’ll learn that soon.
A shiver runs through me, equal parts fury and anticipation. My stomach twists as I shove the phone back into my bag. I was going to need more than tequila to survive marrying a monster like Isaac Kozlov.
Itoss the phone into my bag, already planning the next phase of Operation: Annoy the Hell Out of My Future Husband.
A part of me is smug. Maybe I finally got under his skin. Maybe he’s second-guessing this whole thing the way he should’ve from the beginning. Maybe this ridiculous wedding will fall apart before I ever have to pack a single bag.
Evie’s already outside, arms crossed, leaning against the railing beneath the amber glow of the bar’s outdoor lights.
She gives me a look when she sees me approaching. “You good?”
“I’m tipsy. Petty. And considering setting fire to my wedding dress before I even pick one.”
She smiles. “So you’re great.”
My father’s driver waits beside the black SUV that has practically become my second home. Andrei, silent and stoic, forever wearing sunglasses at night as though auditioning for a spy movie, gives a curt nod. I roll my eyes and wave him off.
“I don’t need babysitting.”
“You do tonight,” Evie says, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the car. “You’re drunk and reckless, which means it’s either Andrei or I shove you into an Uber and pray you don’t drunk-text Isaac.”
“I would never,” I lie.
She shoves me in and I settle into the backseat, lean my head against the window, and try not to imagine Isaac’s stupid grin. Or what he’d say if he had responded. Or what I would’ve said if he had pushed just one message further.