17. Arkadiy
17
ARKADIY
H ow is it only Monday? The past weekend was the longest in my life. It dragged, easily the equivalent of a month. I’m tired and moody since my sleep schedule has been just as lagging, and the only thing I was looking forward to this week is late.
Where the fuck are you, Mara?
Forever impatient, I pull my phone out of my pocket and select a frequently called number.
Rafael answers two rings later. “I was beginning to think you had lost my number.” His laugh hacks my nerves. “Run out of shampoo already? I only restocked your bathroom Saturday morning.”
After working my jaw side to side, I get to the source of my frustration. “Where is she?”
I haven’t spoken to Mara since my disastrous attempt at acting like I wasn’t choked with fear that it took my team over an hour to find her Friday night, but she gave me her word that she would be here today.
I never considered the possibility she would change her mind. She seems too honest for that, too determined, and I hate that I don’t know her well enough to be one hundred percent confident in my assessment of her traits.
I hear Rafael twist his seedy mustache before his tone switches from teasing to understanding. “We adjusted her roster, remember? You wanted to give her more time with Tillie, so you changed her schedule so she could drop Tillie off at school and pick her up.” The unease making my skin hot soothes when he murmurs, “She’s looking good. A little tired, but definitely good.”
When a growl finalizes his statement, one rumbles in my chest.
Rafael’s laugh is cut short when I say, “When she arrives, send her to my office.” I try not to look desperate. “The bookshelves need dusting.”
“Bullshit. It is because your office is like your bedroom. Out of bounds for anyone not named Ma?—”
I disconnect our call before shifting on my feet to face the floor-to-ceiling window of my office. The hope of witnessing Mara’s arrival at work trickles through my veins and doubles the output of my heart.
I have an obsession I’m confident isn’t healthy, but I have no clue how to alter it. I have had infatuations before, but not like this. Mara truly fascinates me. I don’t think, drink, or eat without her beautiful face sneaking into the picture. She is the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing before I sleep.
Before you ask, hardly any of the things I imagine include her stutter or how she got it.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I sense I am being watched. The heaviness of his footing announces who it is half a second before I turn around to greet him.
Fyodor is a little overweight in the midsection, and since he must counterbalance his stomach, he walks heavily on his heels. His stomps could wake the dead.
I’m shocked when Fyodor isn’t the only soul in my office. The woman who forced me to stroke my cock in my office bathroom the past three nights because her perfume is too distracting to discount is standing at his left, looking smug.
“What the fuck is she still doing here?”
Veronika isn’t turned off by either my scold or the fact I spoke as if she isn’t present. “Saving you from making a mistake.” She steps closer, her overly floral perfume hammering my sinuses. “I get it. The maid?—”
“Mara.” My bark announces I wouldn’t allow my mother to disrespect her, so there’s no chance in hell I’ll stand aside and watch her be belittled by a woman who’d sell her soul for half a million Instagram followers.
“Mara”—Veronika’s eyelids twitch as her eyes roll—“is beautiful. I understand your fascination, Ark.” She should stop there. It may be the only way she will make it out of my office in one piece. “But she is not wife material.” My fists stiffen as rapidly as my cock when she says, “That’s why I’m giving you a free pass. Fuck the mai—” She recovers quickly. “Fuck Mara, get her out of your system, and then we can move on to a mutual collaboration that will shoot our stardom to superstar status.”
A mutual collaboration?
That’s what she calls a possible eight years of marriage—a mutual collaboration.
I’m so shocked I can’t speak.
Fyodor mistakes it as a consideration. “Veronika is right, Arkadiy. Early polling this morning has forecasters predicting a surge in your approval rating.” He fumbles through an oversized newspaper and reads from an article printed several pages in. “If predictions remain ingenuous, Arkadiy Orlov could enter the race ahead of his main competitor.” He backhands the newspaper, his chubby hand tearing through the page before he lifts his eyes to mine. “The articles printed over the weekend about your flourishing relationship with Veronika are responsible for this. The voters love the idea of you settling down?—”
“Yes, settling down. They don’t care with who.”
Veronika huffs but remains quiet, leaving the floor to Fyodor. “They approve of this relationship”—he thrust his hand between Veronika and me during the “this” part of his reply—“because of the excitement of possible future endeavors. The courting, engagement, wedding, and commencement of fatherhood.” He lowers his tone to barely a whisper. “A ready-built family is not what the voters are looking for.” I’m already on the verge of blowing my top, so you can picture how perverse it becomes when, instead of going down with a sinking ship, he throws others overboard so he has something to cling to. “Your mother agrees with me. She saw the struggles your father faced when they wed?—”
“That man was not my father.”
Fyodor swallows, shocked by my outburst. He can be because he doesn’t know the hell I went through under that man’s reign and how badly it still affects my life to this day.
If it weren’t for him , Mara would already be mine.
“Leave.” My narrowed gaze is for Fyodor, but my demand is for Veronika.
She tries to lessen the tension pilfering the air of oxygen. “Just think about it, Ark. That’s all we’re asking. We could be amazing together and do many wonderful things.”
While batting her lashes, she places her hand on my chest and leans in to kiss my cheek goodbye. I pull away, causing her to almost stumble. Just her hand on me makes me furious. I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions if her overly glossed lips were to touch me. And don’t get me started on her choice of perfume.
It reminds me of her .
I wait for Veronika to leave before walking around my desk. I need something bulky between Fyodor and me to ensure I use words instead of my fists while announcing my anger about his blatant disrespect.
“Who do you work for, Fyodor?”
He looks at me in shock, and it pisses me off.
“Who do you work for?” I ask again, louder this time. “Me or my mother?”
“You,” he answers, his reply just as loud, his anger as apparent. “Of course you.” He tries to soothe tempered waters, his paycheck as vital to him as his life. “I only brought up your mother because she contacted me last night.” Stupidly, he steps closer. “She said you told her to back off and that you need space.”
“Because I do!”
I’ve never spoken a bad word about my mother in my life. If she says something, even something I disagree with, I keep my mouth shut. It isn’t that I trust her word and know she would never lead me astray. It is because she knows all my deepest, darkest secrets.
Pacifying her pacifies my worry that she will destroy any chance I have of power. Not the power some men wrongly believe they have. The ultimate power. The top tier of the ladder. I want to rule the nation because those on the top perch will never be shit on again.
But I couldn’t do that Friday night. My mother doesn’t know a thing about Mara, her background, or the fight she displays with nothing but a glance, yet she tore her to shreds by assessing her credibility through a paparazzi image.
I went to war. I fought for a woman who scares me as much as she intrigues me, and I was winning… until my mother noticed Mara wasn’t the only female in the photograph.
Tillie’s whitened face is barely visible in the image the paparazzo took of us in the back of the cab, but once you notice her in the crook of her mother’s arm, you can’t miss her. Her face is as precious as her mother’s, and her eyes are just as soul-stealing.
Not even my mother could deny those facts. She used them against me multiple times throughout her two-hour tirade. Her belief that I am moments away from becoming the monster from my nightmares was so on-point not even a fifth of whiskey and a recently replenished bathroom could take the edge off.
I stewed over her claim for hours and see myself doing the same again now when I dismiss Fyodor from my office as if his disrespect doesn’t warrant further punishment.
He’s almost out the door when I hand him the final nail for his coffin. It’s up to him what he does with it. “Speaking with my mother behind my back again will see you standing at the end of an unemployment line. Do I make myself clear?”
Guilt colors his tone when he answers, “Profoundly, sir.”