Prologue #6
I stare at him, utterly discomposed. “But—”
“This never should have happened,” he says harshly. “You wanted to be kissed. I kissed you. That’s it, Ofelia. That’s the end of this.”
“You don’t mean that.” I slide from the terrace wall and touch his arm.
He steps away from my touch, his face averted.
“Actually, I do.” His utter disinterest chills the night. “You were right, you know. When you said I get laid more than a porn star. I own half the girls in Miami, and those I don’t can always be bought.”
“And I know those girls don’t matter—”
“You’re right. They don’t.” His lips twist cruelly. “And neither do you. If I hadn’t been bored out of my mind, and drunk too much to get through tonight’s bullshit, this never would have happened.”
He thrusts his hands into his suit pockets, his face as cold and remote as the Russian steppe.
“I don’t care for you like that, Ofelia.
You’re my sister’s stepdaughter. Roman’s daughter.
That means I’m honor bound to protect you—something I definitely fucked up tonight.
But it won’t happen again. Not ever. Christ.” He rakes a hand through his hair.
“What the fuck was I thinking,” he says, more to himself than to me. “I need to get out of here.”
He glances at me. “Go,” he orders curtly. “For Chrissakes, Ofelia. Fucking leave.”
For a moment I want to argue.
To tell him about the million journal entries beginning with his name.
The long hours spent poring over the photographs of him online.
The lonely nights playing songs that make me think of him.
But suddenly, I realize how ridiculously childish all of that sounds.
How utterly pathetic.
Ever since I was captive in that cell, I’ve believed that beneath his cold facade, Alexei has longed for me with the same savagery I have him.
But now I understand something I never truly considered before: Alexei really doesn’t care.
He never fucking did.
I push past him, tugging my dress into place, stumbling on the stone stairs in the darkness, struggling to see through the tears already beginning to spill down my face.
“Ofelia—”
I furiously shake off the hand he puts out to steady me and bolt down the dark walk in an effort to find a bathroom before anyone sees me.
I’m running so blindly that I crash right into Lars.
“Darling!” His genial smile vanishes the moment he sees my tearstained face. “What the fuck happened?” He pulls me close to him, looking around as if ready to hit any on-comers. It’s so out of character that I half laugh, half sob.
“Nothing.” I almost choke on the word. “Absolutely nothing happened, Lars. Nothing that matters, anyway.”
He stares at me, then his eyes narrow in understanding, and he shakes his head. “Oh, darling.” He tries to pull me close again, but his sympathy only makes it worse.
“It doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
“Let her go.” Alexei’s voice comes from somewhere behind me, low and dangerous.
I can’t face him.
I push myself away from Lars. “Just let me go.” My voice is half sob. “Please, Lars.”
He stares at me for a moment, then his mouth twists resignedly. “There’s a bathroom on the left.” He stands aside, glaring at Alexei behind me as I push past.
“You absolute bastard,” I hear him say as I reach the bathroom door. In a mirror on the stone wall at the end of the walk, I see Lars’s fists ball at his sides.
“This has nothing to do with you,” Alexei snarls.
Lars’s fist flashes out, hitting Alexei in the jaw with a sickening thud. Alexei makes no effort to defend himself, just rocks back on his heels, facing Lars impassively. Lars looms over him, looking for a moment like he may throw another punch.
Then he pauses.
For a moment the two men stare at each other.
Then, shaking his head, Lars throws his arm around Alexei, crushing him almost violently to his side before turning them both toward the exit.
“Come on, then,” he says, his voice not quite steady. “Let’s go and get fucked up, before Mickey catches sight of you.”
I wait until their footsteps fade before I close the bathroom door.
He’s gone.
I grip the enamel sink and stare at my hectic color and tearstained face in the mirror. My eyes glitter feverishly, and my hair is disheveled, my lips swollen.
Not so perfect anymore.
For the first time since I left that Miami cell, I finally see the truth behind the lie of my reflection: Alexei Petrovsky never wanted me the way I wanted him.
Not ever.
Whatever delusion I’ve been living for the past five years is over, revealed to be nothing but childish fantasy.
Infatuation. Obsession.
A fucking schoolgirl crush.
The questions that have haunted me over the years have been definitively answered. In the most humiliating fashion I could have imagined.
“It’s over.” I stare into my own eyes and say it aloud, just to be sure that my inner delulu bitch actually listens.
I wash my face. Reapply my lipstick. Smooth my hair and straighten my dress.
Then I walk outside with my head held high and grab the first bottle of champagne I see.
I’m done with Alexei Petrovsky.
And I have a life to live.