Chapter 3
Hazel
Someone was screaming.
I forced my eyes open.
First thing I saw was a beige ceiling with a crystal chandelier hanging dead center.
This wasn't my room. Our trailer had low, filthy ceilings with smoke-stained plastic panels. Not this.
The screaming stopped. Then came the crash of porcelain hitting the floor.
I turned toward the sound. A maid in black and white stood in the doorway.
One hand clamped over her mouth. The other pointed at the bed. Her eyes were dinner plates, face frozen in horror.
I followed her stare and looked down.
Then came face-to-face with my own bare tits.
What the hell? My heart dropped like a stone.
I yanked back the covers—completely naked, dried white streaks between my legs, sticky and damning. And next to me, a muscled male leg covered in light hair sprawled across the sheets.
This can't be what I think it is...
I turned my head. Slowly. Inch by inch.
A man lay beside me, still asleep, brow slightly furrowed. Even unconscious, there was nothing soft about him.
I knew that face. The man who'd pointed a gun at me last night.
Why? Why was I naked in his arms?
I clawed through my memories, searching for what the hell happened. But I only found fragments—Tyler and Lacey, those cutting words, me downing drink after drink, stumbling up the stairs, pushing open some random door...
I stared at his face. More images surfaced.
I remembered unzipping my dress like some kind of slut, begging him not to make me leave. Then kissing, touching, us tangled together most of the night.
Oh God. What did I do?
What the hell did I do?
"What's going on?"
A familiar voice came from the doorway.
I raised my head stiffly.
Anya appeared at the door. She looked rough—hair messy, faint shadows under her eyes. Clearly hadn't slept.
She looked at the trembling maid first, frowned. "What are you screaming about?"
The maid stepped aside, shaking.
Anya's gaze landed on me. Then on the man beside me. Then back to my face.
Her expression shifted through a dozen emotions before settling on pure fury.
"Hazel?" Disbelief dripped from her voice. "Why the fuck are you in bed with my father?"
Father?
The world stopped.
I turned stiffly, looked at the man beside me again.
The man I'd stripped for last night. The man I'd thrown myself at. Anya's father. My best friend's father.
The underground ruler of Los Angeles that guests whispered about last night. The terrifying mob Pakhan. Viktor Gromov.
My stomach lurched violently. I almost threw up.
"Hazel." Anya's voice shook now. "Say something. You better have a damn good explanation."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. My throat felt stuffed with cotton.
"What's with the noise?"
A low, rough male voice cut in, lazy with sleep.
The man woke up.
Viktor sat up. The covers slid off, exposing his back—vicious tattoos and crisscrossing scars, fresh scratch marks on top. Just seeing those intimate marks made me want to slap myself unconscious.
No way to explain this. No way to deny what happened.
Could this get any more humiliating?
I pulled back instinctively, yanking the covers up to hide myself.
"Slept well for once." He rubbed his brow, irritation in his tone. "What's with the goddamn shrieking this early?"
Anya stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking the exit.
"I need an explanation."
Viktor propped himself up, nodded at the terrified maid.
"Out."
The maid practically bolted, closing the door behind her.
"Tell me what the hell this is," Anya repeated.
Viktor didn't answer right away. He got out of bed slowly, bent down, and picked up his black robe from the floor.
That's when I noticed our discarded clothes still scattered on the carpet—my borrowed dress crumpled by the door, my bra and panties front and center on the rug like some kind of damning evidence.
Viktor tied his robe slowly, movements calm, not a trace of panic. Like we weren't even worth his attention. Like nothing that happened in this room mattered enough to warrant a second thought.
I watched his profile, a pathetic hope blooming in my chest—maybe he'd help explain? Maybe he'd say it was an accident? He knew how drunk I'd been last night.
I clutched the covers, staring at him, waiting for him to speak.
Viktor finished tying his robe. Finally turned his head.
"Not worth making a scene over." His tone was dismissive. "Just another woman trying to climb into my bed."
My blood turned to ice.
"Anya, you should reconsider the kind of friends you're making at that school." He continued to his daughter. "I told you it wasn't the right place for you. Too many people ready to use you. Just like today."
Use?
I never wanted to use Anya.
I treasured our friendship so carefully. Never asked to borrow money, never asked for favors. I even refused when she offered to buy me clothes. I was terrified she'd think I was some greedy poor girl. Terrified she'd realize I wasn't good enough to be her friend.
I cherished this girl so much. She was my only friend.
"No," I whispered. "It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like?" Anya turned to me, fury blazing in her eyes.
Viktor laughed coldly. "She's probably going to say she stumbled into my room by accident, stripped herself naked, and begged me to fuck her. But now she conveniently can't remember any of it."
He straightened, adjusted his collar. In that instant he transformed back into the man from last night's corridor—the one I couldn't look in the eye.
"Pathetic trick," Viktor added.
Then he just left.
He walked past Anya without breaking stride. He left everything in this room behind—my tears, my explanations, my shattered dignity scattered on the floor—like it was all garbage not worth a second glance.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Just me and Anya left.
I wrapped the covers around myself, stumbled toward her.
"Anya." I reached for her. "Please listen to me. Just let me explain—"
She stepped back, dodged my hand.
"Last night," I babbled, tears blurring my vision, "I drank too much. I don't remember anything. I walked into the wrong room. I didn't know it was your father's room."
"Stop talking." Anya's voice trembled.
"Anya, this is a misunderstanding." I kept going desperately. "I swear, I had no idea who he was. If I'd known, how could I possibly—he's your father. You're my best friend. How could I do this to you?"
"My best friend." She repeated the words, then laughed—a sound worse than crying. "You know what I was doing last night, Hazel?"
I couldn't speak.
"Looking for you." Her eyes reddened. "After the party ended, I searched everywhere.
I asked everyone. I searched this house from first floor to third.
I called you god knows how many times. You never answered.
I thought something happened to you. I thought you passed out drunk somewhere.
I was so worried I didn't sleep all night. "
Tears streamed down her face.
"I looked for you all night." She said. "And you were here. In my father's bed."
"Anya, please—"
"You have a boyfriend." Her voice shot up. "You have Tyler! But you crawled into my father's bed. What does that make you, Hazel? Did I have you wrong from the start?"
"It's not like that, let me explain—"
I grabbed Anya's hand, trying to make her understand.
"Don't touch me."
She ripped her hand away hard. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the trailing covers.
She looked at me with those ice-blue eyes—identical to her father's—now filled with nothing but disgust.
"We're not friends," Anya said, each word carefully. "Starting now, we're nothing."
I stood there, mouth open, wordless.
"Get out." Her voice shook but held no mercy. "Put your clothes on and get the hell out of this house. I don't want to see you. Ever again."
She turned, walked quickly to the door, yanked it open, and shouted. Several guards entered, stood by the door, waiting for orders.
"Get her out," Anya said with her back to me, voice already hoarse. "Right now."
I wanted to say more, wanted to reach for her again. But I knew it was useless.
Anya's back stayed straight, shoulders trembling slightly. She never looked back.
Someone picked up the wrinkled dress from the floor and shoved it at me. I was half-dragged toward the bathroom to get dressed.
But my hands shook too badly to pull up the zipper.
The woman in the mirror had wild hair, smeared makeup, eyes swollen and red from crying. I barely recognized myself.
Yesterday I'd put on my mother's old dress so happily, looking forward to a graduation party with my boyfriend and best friend, hoping for one good day in my shitty life.
Now my boyfriend cheated. My best friend wanted me thrown out.
I got dressed, determined to find Anya one more time to explain.
Tyler was worthless anyway. But I couldn't stand losing Anya like this.
But fate gave me no chance. The moment I stepped out of the bathroom, two guards grabbed me.
We walked through corridors that just last night blazed with lights and clinking glasses. Now empty except for abandoned drinks and debris.
As I passed, I felt servants cleaning up exchange glances, whispering about me. I couldn't hear what they said. But I could guess.
The girl who used Anya to climb into her father's bed.
They dragged me all the way to the manor's imposing black wrought-iron gates.
One guard shoved hard.
I pitched forward, knees slamming into the asphalt outside the manor.
The guard threw my cheap heels through the gap in the gate. They landed beside me. The heels made dull thuds hitting the road.
The guard stood inside the gate. He looked at me like trash.
"Take your cheap tricks back to the slums where you belong." The guard's face twisted with contempt.
Heavy mechanical gears ground. Those massive black wrought-iron gates slowly closed in front of me.
As they shut, they seemed to sever everything I'd ever had with Anya.