Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She eyes my jeans and crop top once again. “Get changed. I’ll wait downstairs in the car.” She turns to leave.
“Get changed for what?” I shout. “You and your brother are so bossy.” When I add the last part, she spins back around and raises a perfect brow.
“You clearly need assistance in”—she waves a hand at me—“life. I offered to help since Alek has to work.”
Most people would probably be offended by that remark, but I’ve come to discover it’s the Ivanov siblings’ specialty.
“Help with what?” I ask.
“Furniture.”
I pale. I can just imagine what type of furniture they have in mind, and it’s not the cheap kind that comes in a box that I build myself.
“Oh no, I don’t want him paying for anything,” I say, shaking my head.
“He isn’t. I am.” She turns, and her ponytail whips out behind her. “And I hate to be kept waiting,” she adds. As the elevator doors open, I recognize Clay, the guy who drove me home from Alek’s two nights ago.
She studies me, as if I’m a tiny bug on the wall, as the elevator doors close.
I shut the door in a panic because I definitely think pissing someone like Anya off would be a mistake.
I feel almost overdressed as I grab the loose yellow dress I was admiring only minutes before. I look at the wide selection of heels and then the boots I wore with my jeans last night. They work, so I opt to wear them instead.
Checking myself in the mirror, I run my hands through my hair. The red headband from last night doesn’t match my dress, so I quickly change the bandage to a smaller Band-Aid and then all but run out the door with my things.
When I make it downstairs, Clay is holding the passenger door open for me. Anya has her glasses on, her nose pointed high, as she looks down at her phone.
“Thank you,” I say to Clay as I climb in. He nods curtly. I notice another man sitting in the driver’s seat, and realize these two were the ones standing outside of the dressing room at the auction I was hired to dance at.
I wonder, if I hadn’t gone to that, would any of this escalated to where it is now?
“Did you even shower?” Anya asks.
“No, you told me to hurry,” I remind her.
“At least tell me you’ll shower when you get back.”
“Of course I will,” I scoff.
“That head gash looks nasty,” she comments. “So does Alek’s car, by the way.”
I cringe at that.
She gestures for the driver to start the car. It’s intimidating as shit to sit in the back of the car with such a powerful woman. These men are clearly at her beck and call. My parents might claim I have an attitude, but mine is a candle flame compared to the inferno of Anya Ivanov.
“So what is his name? Is it just Alek?” I ask, wanting to fill the silence.
“Aleksandr,” she says with a slight Russian accent. I like the way it leaves her mouth. It suits him more than Alek.
Anya makes a call and almost immediately begins negotiating a price for, from what ’I can tell, is a rare jewel. It makes sense, I guess, since she’s sporting some pretty expensive jewelry. Compared to her, I almost feel like the teenager Alek once described me as. I’m only two years out of college and truly starting my career now, whereas this woman has built an empire and she doesn’t look old enough for it.
My phone buzzes, and I look at the text message that comes through.
Mr. Happy: You can stay in the hotel for as long as required until your apartment is ready.
I squint at the message. I mean, it’s as direct as any message could be. I reply.
Me: Thank you, but you’ve both already done so much for me. If I can at least have a new mattress by today, I’ll go back home.
No reply. Until my message receives a thumbs-up emoji. Thumbs-up? Seriously? I stare at it in disbelief, reminding myself that Alek probably has no idea about the silent social killer of the thumbs-up emoji.
The car comes to a stop at a store I know I should never walk into because it’s one for the rich. Anya gets out. Someone opens my door, and she doesn’t wait for me. She walks in as if she owns the place, and starts bossing people around. They all jump at her command. A glass of champagne is handed to me, which she immediately takes from my hand.
“Water for her,” she says, then looks at me. “Did you forget about your head?” She taps her head and looks around. “Okay, your current style is more dumpster chic. Let’s change that up a little.”
My jaw drops. Did she just say my style was dumpster chic?