Chapter 3 – Emika
They say never make a deal with the devil because you never know what he’ll ask.
Well, in my case, the man who was supposed to be my grandfather was the devil I had no choice but to make a deal with. His condition was simple; he wanted me to marry a man of his choice. However, that something was simple didn’t mean it was easy.
This man practically asked me to sell my life away, to trade my future for my mother’s medical bills. He was the devil incarnate, a selfish prick who cared about nothing but himself.
I was taught to respect my elders. But at this point, Richard Beaumont was deserving of my hatred. Not my respect. I couldn’t understand why a human being could be so cold and heartless toward his own flesh and blood.
In all honesty, if I didn’t know better, I’d have doubted the fact that he was actually her father.
It had been a week since I met with him at his estate. He gave me four days to think about my decision, then called me three days ago to ask whether I was still in on the plan.
I didn’t have a choice; I couldn’t bring myself to let my mother’s condition worsen just because I was trying to save my future. She’d sacrificed a lot for me, and now it was time to do the same for her. She might hate me when she found out what I did to save her life.
But I’d rather she did that than give up the ghost. Not on my watch. So, I told him that I was ready to play his game. His tone didn’t shift: no hint of excitement, relief, or any other emotion at all.
The man was too fuckin’ cold for his old age.
He told me I was going to meet my mysterious fiancé today. He warned me not to be late because, according to him, the man I was engaged to hated it when people wasted his time.
I could already tell that I wasn’t going to enjoy this meeting. And quite frankly, I loathed the man without even knowing who he was or what he looked like. The fact that he was friends with, or a business partner of, my grandfather meant they were cut from the same cloth.
Richard Beaumont was marrying me off to yet another monster like him. How cruel did a man need to be to contest for the position of the most wicked man on the planet?
These days, with each passing second, I understand better why my mother stayed away from him. He was evil and would do anything to get what he wanted.
Just like Mr. Krabs in the popular kids’ cartoon, SpongeBob, my grandfather was greedy and wouldn’t mind selling the world for his own gain.
I hated him. I hated him so much.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel as I drove to the restaurant, the venue where I was supposed to meet my future husband. A blend of anger and sadness washed over me as Dido’s 1998 classic “Thank You” filled the car’s cabin.
“My tea’s gone cold, I’m wondering why
I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window
And I can’t see at all
And even if I could, it’d all be grey….”
Lost in the music and the slow beat, I didn’t realize when a vehicle popped up in front of me. Everything happened so fast, and I almost crashed into it. My eyes widened in horror as I slammed on the brakes, my car’s tires screeching to an abrupt halt.
Thanks to my strapped-in seatbelt, I didn’t dash my head against the steering wheel. My heart raced in my chest, my fingers combing my hair backward. I watched the driver in front of me wind down his tinted glass window. And that’s when something snapped inside me.
“Son of a bitch,” I murmured under my breath and opened my car door. “What is wrong with you?!” I raised my voice, stepping out of the vehicle. “Don’t you know how to drive? You almost killed me!”
The man alighted from his sleek black SUV—tall, lean, built like a predator. His dark brown hair was slicked back, and his eyes, an uncommon pale gray, were flat and unreadable, like winter ice. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, a pair of leather gloves, and polished, expensive shoes.
His presence was commanding, and I didn’t need to be a psychic to know that he was no ordinary man. He reeked of wealth and power, and when he moved, every step seemed deliberate—calculated.
Fuck, he’s handsome.
The man was attractive, the scent of his cologne intoxicating. For a moment there, I almost forgot myself until he spoke, and the arrogance in his tone snapped me back to reality.
He looked at me, then at my car and how close I’d come to bashing his SUV. “You talk too much for a woman who almost dented my vehicle,” he said, his voice calm but dripping with condescension.
My brows arched in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who popped out of nowhere. Your license should be revoked because you clearly don’t know how to drive!” I blurted out, my words sharp as a knife.
Silence.
His gaze shifted to my car, where Dido’s song was still playing.
“Lemme guess,” he began, “you’re having a bad day.
You were thinking about your miserable life while driving and listening to that song.
You didn’t see me coming because you were distracted by your own thoughts.
” The words were spoken in a calm, yet annoying manner.
What the hell?
I hated how accurately this stranger could read me without breaking a sweat. But what I hated most was that arrogance in his tone.
“So tell me, which one of us should have their license revoked?” he added, his expression blank.
I locked my jaw, my scowl deepening. “You rich folks love going around intimidating the average citizens, don’t you?”
“Rich folks?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I merely analyzed your bad behavior. What does that have to do with wealth?”
I honestly hadn’t meant to go down that path, but it was the only thing I could think of at the moment.
He continued, “Oh, I forgot, you poor people always see everything as a show of power. So maybe I should prove you right and make a phone call to have your license revoked.”
My brows knitted together, blood boiling with rage. “Do it. I dare you,” I said. “You might have money, but I’m a lawyer. So try me.”
Silence.
He just stared at me with a faint smirk slowly tugging at the corners of his lips.
I glanced at my watch and realized that I was already five minutes late for my supposed date. My grandfather’s words suddenly echoed in my head about how my fiancé hated being kept waiting. I couldn’t afford to jeopardize this date, for the sake of my mother at least.
“Shit,” I murmured, running back to my car.
Without another word, I slammed the door shut and drove away, leaving the mysterious stranger on the lonely road.
When I reached my destination, I parked outside the restaurant and killed the engine. I drew a deep, long breath, then adjusted the rearview mirror so I could catch my reflection in it.
“You got this, Emi,” I said to myself. “You got this.”
I stepped out of the vehicle and walked confidently into the restaurant. Once inside, my eyes adjusted to the soft light as the sweet aroma of grilled chicken and chips wafted through the air.
I located the table where I was supposed to meet this man, and to my surprise, it was empty. For someone who was keen on not having his time wasted, he was late. Relieved, I sat at the table for two, waiting.
Then a thought crossed my mind. What if he were here five minutes ago and had left because I hadn’t yet shown up? Shit. Was that possible?
To confirm, I flagged down a waitress and politely asked her if anyone had been at this reserved table. Her response was negative. It was then that I let out a sigh of relief.
Less than a minute later, the front doors swung open, and a familiar face waltzed in. It was the same man from the road, the arrogant one who thought he could intimidate me with his power and wealth.
I frowned when he locked eyes with me and began approaching my table. He moved silently, his polished shoes catching the soft light above.
“What, are you stalking me now?” I asked.
He halted before me. “I should be asking you the same thing. What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”
His words fueled my rage. “Someone like me?”
“Yes,” he answered bluntly. “Uncultured, unmannered, arrogant—”
“You mean ‘poor,’” I cut him off.
He paused. “Your words. Not mine.”
I watched him unbutton his suit and take a seat across from me.
“Look, I’m not even gonna indulge you anymore,” I said, my voice laced with disdain. “You should leave now before my date arrives.”
“Your date?” He let out a dismissive chuckle. “I almost feel sorry for the guy.”
“Oh, yeah?” I shot back. “Whoever you’re meeting up with here must be unlucky.”
“She’ll be the judge of that,” he answered.
Just then, a waiter walked over to us and greeted the man with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tarasov.”
“Tarasov?” I asked, shifting my gaze between the strange man and the waiter.
They ignored me and spoke to each other in Russian. That’s when it hit me. The name sounded familiar because it was the surname of the man I was supposed to meet here today. According to my grandfather, my mysterious fiancé was a high-profile member of an important Russian family.
Fuck.
Judging by the way he was looking at me, it was obvious that he’d now figured out who I was. “Well, well, would you look at that? What a twist of fate.” A small, knowing smirk lined the corners of his mouth.
You have got to be kidding me.