Chapter 2
Alina
My father’s housekeeper, Katya, meets me at the front door. She gives me one look before letting out a long sigh. “What did he do now, Alinochka?”
“Just tell me he’s still awake.”
“Your father’s in his office, but really, you look angry.” Katya’s frown deepens. “Honestly, what happened?”
I’ve known her all my life, and there are very few people in this world who I trust more, but I’m too embarrassed to tell her what’s going on.
I video called my secret boyfriend topless, but my future husband answered and ogled my bare tits instead.
And oh, yeah, Dad arranged my marriage to a stranger without telling me.
It’s all way too pathetic.
Instead, I shake my head, lips set in a hard line. “I just need to talk to him.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She hurries off, looking worried. I give her a few seconds before following after, even though I’m supposed to wait in the front hall. Right now, I’m too angry to play by the rules.
The Morozov building is a massive property on the Upper East Side.
It’s three brownstones connected together on the corner of a quiet, shady street.
Most of the houses around here are obscenely wealthy doctors, lawyers, and powerful CEOs.
I doubt they realize my father lives among them, a wolf pretending to be a very rich lamb.
The floors are all expensive, original hardwood.
My father’s collection of Russian artists hangs on the walls.
They’re all ugly and dour. Not my taste at all.
I pass a dozen different rooms, most of which never get used, but Papa makes sure the staff keeps them all pristine in case a visitor goes wandering.
The entire compound is designed around maximum shock and awe, and it was a real hellhole to grow up in, at least when I was around.
Mostly I got shuttled between boarding schools in the northeast and in the UK.
I did four years at Vassar to get a marketing degree before settling in the apartment I own now, over in an obscenely expensive building in Hudson Yards.
Katya catches me before I reach my father’s study. She looks a little harried as I walk toward her with purpose. “I’m sorry, Alinochka, but he says—”
“Whatever it is, he’s going to talk.”
“But dear, his show—”
My hands curl into fists. The asshole’s watching freaking baseball and doesn’t want to see me. “The Yankees will play again tomorrow.”
I storm through his study door, Katya hovering behind me.
I find my father sitting in an expensive leather chair near the fireplace, a little color TV tucked in the corner of bookshelves, the ninth inning of a game in progress.
He’s got his feet up on an ottoman and a drink in his hand, and he looks deeply annoyed to see me.
“I thought I said I was busy.” My father glares at me. “The Yankees are closing out a close game.”
Screw this. I’m tired of being tossed aside. Always an afterthought for this man. He gives me whatever I want, so long as I don’t ever bother him. Money is fine, it’s easy, he can have his people take care of it.
But an actual conversation? Face to face with his own daughter?
That’s asking too much.
“Who is Seamus Whelan and why does he think we’re getting married?”
My father’s expression hardens. I hear Katya take a sharp breath behind me.
Slowly, he puts his feet down and leans forward on his knees.
Papa stares at me, eyes sharp and hard. He’s gotten softer over the years.
Physically, at least. He’s got a little gut now and his face has some flab on it.
But beneath the signs of a rich man enjoying his hard work remain the dagger-sharp claws and ruthless personality that won him this empire to begin with.
“Katya, you’re excused.” He slowly gets to his feet and takes a long sip of his whiskey. When the door shuts behind me, he glances at the TV and grimaces before turning it off. “When did you hear about that?”
“Earlier. I spoke with Seamus.” I feel my toes begin to tingle. It’s like my blood’s so cold it’s making them go numb. “It’s true then?”
“You know I’ve been building something with the Whelans.” He stalks to his desk, looking annoyed. “There’s only ever one way to trust those people. What have I said your whole life? The most important thing in the world?”
“Family,” I whisper, sinking down into a chair. He takes out a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and refills his glass. He doesn’t offer me any.
“That’s right. Family. And if we want this alliance to be permanent, that means I have to marry a blood relative to one of theirs.” He stares at me, swirling his drink. He looks more pensive than I thought he would.
“Were you going to tell me?” I manage to croak. I realize dimly that I’m in shock. Even after that conversation with Seamus, I didn’t really believe this was happening.
But of course it is. This has always been my future. Ever since I was little, my dad made it clear. My worth to the family goes straight through my womb. One day I’ll be called upon to marry and produce heirs—
And that’s the reason I’m pampered.
It’s the only reason anyone gives a damn whether I’m still breathing or not.
“Eventually,” he says dismissively. “I was dreading it. I didn’t want to deal with this.” He waves a hand at me, making a face.
I sit up like he slapped me in the face. I straighten my back and fix my face. Perfect and proper. The way a bratva daughter should be.
“There’s nothing to deal with,” I say as icily as I can. “But I would appreciate it if you gave me a heads-up about any plans that involve my future.”
“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you say.”
“Seamus thinks we’re marrying in two weeks.”
He shrugs and glances at his phone. “That’s correct.”
I nearly gag. “That’s too soon!”
“And yet it’s happening. What would you have me say? This is your duty, Alina. What does it matter if it’s two weeks or two months? The result is the same.”
“It’s my wedding. I have to get a dress. I need to prepare—”
“You have two weeks. That’s plenty of time. The arrangements will be handled for you.”
“I don’t even know this man!” I’m tempted to throw the call in my father’s face. He’d despise that. His perfect little girl showing her naked body to a man like that. It would disgust him. But I don’t need to give him more of a reason to hate me.
“You will walk down the aisle. You will marry the Whelan man. And you will produce children with him as quickly as possible. I want multiple little Irish and Russian brats, Alina. I want to make sure this alliance is solid, do you understand me?”
“You could have told me at least,” I say, hating the way my voice trembles.
Papa’s nose wrinkles with disgust. “Why couldn’t you have been like your mother? My poor, missing Darya? Now that was a woman. So strong, powerful, and confident. She never would have stood there shaking like a pathetic small dog.”
I’m trembling with anger. I can’t believe it. He sold me to the Irish and didn’t even bother saying anything. And now he’s insulting me and comparing me to my impossibly perfect mother yet again.
How long was he going to wait before saying anything about this? Until the night before? When I couldn’t do much more than rage into my pillow before giving myself to a stranger forever? If it weren’t for Seamus, I’d never have known until it was too late.
But what does it matter?
In some ways, Papa’s right.
Telling me today or ten minutes before saying my vows won’t change anything. Because as much as I hate my family in this moment, I know what my duty is. I know what I have to do.
It’s what I was born for.
Even if this hurts and I hate the way my father takes every opportunity to remind me how unimportant I really am, I’ll still do as I’m told.
Because I always have.
Seamus was right, back on that call. That stuff with Alex was always just a distraction. It was a stupid game.
Now my real life has to begin.
So why do I feel like I’m falling apart?
Stiffly, I get to my feet. Papa watches, scowling. I know what he’s thinking. Here she goes again. Another emotional outburst. She’ll never live up to her mother’s memory.
He’s right. I won’t ever be half the woman my mother was.
I want to scream in his face. My mother’s gone and I doubt she was ever half as amazing as he made her out to be my whole life.
And he could have at least shown me the slightest bit of courtesy.
Just a quick phone call. A text would’ve been enough to spare me the embarrassment of tit-bombing my future husband.
Instead, I hold myself upright, struggling to maintain my dignity the best I can.
“I understand, Papa,” I say, my voice steady while my hands tremble. “I’ll do what’s expected of me.”
“Good. That’s very good.” He looks away and lifts the remote. The TV clicks back on. Papa curses in Russian. “The fucking Yankees, I swear they lose on purpose sometimes.”
I linger for a moment, completely forgotten as my father berates his beloved baseball team, before slowly walking out into the hall.
Don’t crumble. Don’t fall apart.
Not yet at least.
“Alinochka? Is everything okay?” Katya follows as I walk back to the front door in a daze. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I say, and it sounds like my voice is coming from someone else. “Just a miscommunication.”
“You’re not getting married then?” The hope in her voice breaks my heart into a million pieces.
“No, Katyusha, I am definitely getting married.”
“Oh, dear—” She wraps me in a tight hug. It’s such a familiar feeling, her skinny arms squeezing me, but it doesn’t help at all. “I’m so sorry, Alinochka, I’m so, so sorry.”
I don’t cry. I don’t let myself. Not in this house, anyway.
I manage to make it back into the car before I finally crumble.