Sinful Promises (The Antanov Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

IVY

I’m staring at my college advisor’s lips moving as she continues to talk, but the words aren’t even registering anymore. Something about credits… or hours… requirements that aren’t being met that are going to prevent me from walking across the stage at graduation.

I can’t tell. My brain is ringing, loud and shrill, like someone’s shoved a tuning fork right between my eyeballs and tapped on it with a metal spoon over and over again.

“Ivy?”

I blink back into reality. “I’m sorry. What?”

She offers me a tight, polite smile. It’s the kind people give you when they’re trying to soften the blow to some horrible truth and not knowing how to do it without packing a punch.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear…

but unless you’re able to overload your schedule before the end of the semester or pull perfect marks on your finals, you’re not going to be able to graduate this year. ”

My hands twist together in my lap.

This office smells weirdly like stale coffee and a hint of overly burned printer ink.

Suddenly, I hate all of it—hate her little desk plant with bottom leaves that are drooping from being stuck inside a sunless office all day, hate the way her cheerful little desk pad has sayings like ‘You’ve got this!

’ in an annoyingly bright font and bubble letters, and hate the ticking of the clock right behind her head, counting down the minutes I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken cubicle of a room.

Three years into a two-year degree and absolutely nothing to show for it but a dwindling bank account. My part-time job barely covers my rent as it is, let alone having enough left over to waste on another year of school when there’s no guarantee I’ll get my degree by the end.

“I see…” It’s all I can manage to say.

Because what else is there?

She says something else that I barely pay attention to, probably something to encourage me, but I’m already pulling myself up out of the uncomfortable chair I’ve crammed myself into and picking my tote bag up from the floor to swing over my shoulder.

My steps are mechanical as I turn and head for her door, throwing some half-assed “Thanks” over my shoulder before leaving. I’m in a daze the entire way back to the parking lot where my shitty little Corolla is parked crooked between two spots because I was flustered from running late coming here.

The February air bites at my skin, a reminder of my ill-preparedness from this morning by not grabbing an actual winter jacket before leaving to return to campus. Just another thing to mentally check off my list of failures.

By the time I fish the key to my car out of my pocket and click the fob a few times, I’ve officially entered the self-pity spiral.

Three years.

Three goddamn years of my life I’ve wasted in an effort to force myself into this mold of who I thought I was supposed to be.

A degree was supposed to open doors for a future devoid of constantly having to struggle my way through life.

But all it’s done has forced me into more debt than I started with and no way out but to pay the hefty toll for my fuck-up and then some with interest.

It’s not like I have a safety net or a backup plan in case this one fails me.

I don’t have a family to move back home to once my student housing lease is up. I don’t have people who can support me until I actually figure out what the fuck I want to do with myself now that it’s become pretty obvious this school thing isn’t going to work out.

Cutting my parents out of my life the day I turned eighteen and leaving home to start over were supposed to be my ticket to something better—a fresh, new start to a future without the past dragging me down. Yet now I’m left right in the same position I started out in, broke and alone.

The only thing waiting for me now if I quit school is a part-time gig folding jeans in the clearance section at Old Navy or begging my landlord to let me lease another year even after this one expires.

Fuck. What am I even doing?

Failing at life, apparently.

The second I climb into my car, I pull my phone out and check my texts. A few of my friends have already messaged in our group chat about some get-together and the suggestion of going out to one of the local bars to celebrate the upcoming long weekend.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard, ready to type out a quick Sorry, can’t make it! before driving back to my apartment and spending the rest of the night wallowing with a pint of Espresso Delight in my lap while I re-watch Sex in the City for the second time this month.

It would be easy to self-isolate. Hell, that’s the one thing I’ve got down pat. I’m an expert at cutting myself off from the outside world.

But then again… maybe it would be better to commiserate with my friends instead of trying to lick my wounds alone like my impending spiral is demanding for me to do. That’s what they’re supposed to be there for, right? To pick me up when I’m too down in the dumps to do it myself.

I respond with a quick See you at seven! before tossing my phone into the passenger seat next to me and shoving my key into the ignition to turn over the tired engine.

Hopefully, tonight will help me forget about everything. Because the second tomorrow arrives, I’m going to have to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life now that a future in finance is no longer an option.

“To getting fucked up!” Alia, one of my friends, yells over the loud music playing from the live band on stage. “May your blackout be wild and your hangover mild.”

The sound of clinking shot glasses is followed by the four of us tossing them back.

The tequila burns on the way down, making my face pucker from the after-affects.

Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. The buzz is already softening the edges of my misery, letting my shoulders finally slump from where they’ve been pinched up close to my ears since the meeting with my advisor.

“So, Ivy.”

I turn to Declan, who’s already collecting our glasses to stack into a neat little tower. He’s always been like that, neat and organized. It’s a trait I envy more than anything.

“What are you going to do now that you might not finish school?”

A long sigh escapes me in response.

Honestly, I’m trying not to think about it because when I do, a pit grows in my stomach and twists so hard that it makes throwing up seem merciful. There weren’t many options when I first left home three years ago and that’s been true ever since.

I’m not delusional enough to believe I’m above working minimum wage jobs for a little while.

A job is a job and as long as it pays enough to support me, why not?

That had been the exact reason behind getting the part-time job I have now in order to afford rent and groceries while I finish out my degree.

However, this time in my life was only supposed to be a temporary side note, a stepping stone toward a better future that my degree in finance would be able to fulfill once I walked across that stage and shook my school dean’s hand.

I’ve never had lofty goals for myself in terms of making obscene amounts of money in order to live some lavish lifestyle, nor did I yearn for something other than a standard, middle-class life.

I figured it wasn’t asking too much from the universe to graduate with an associate’s, get an entry-level job somewhere with room to grow, and then maybe work my way through a bachelor’s while climbing the corporate ladder to financial freedom.

Simple. Easy. Drama-free.

But now this… this mess of a situation that I’ve found myself in.

School has never been my thing, per se, but I did well enough to pass my classes in high school and graduate with a regular diploma to be able to get placed into a pretty good school.

At the time, I knew to buckle down and take my studies seriously when I got into university since squandering the one attempt I’d been given would be downright stupid and also a waste of money.

In hindsight, I guess I should’ve known this would be the outcome. My luck has never been something I could rely on. If anything, it’s gotten me into more troubling situations than what I’ve bargained for.

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Ivy. Plenty of people take longer to finish school. It’s okay.” Nina leans over, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me against her side to squeeze me briefly.

“Yeah. Except they usually, you know, finish.” I sigh. “My counselor gave me the impression that it was a lost cause, so I’m taking the loss and giving up before I waste more money.”

“Ugh, who cares!” Alia replies, turning in her seat to wave at one of the bartenders behind the bar and then gesturing to our table for another round of shots.

As soon as she turns back around, she shoots me a wink.

“Degrees are overrated, anyway. My cousin didn’t even graduate high school and is now making bank detailing cars out of his garage.

You should try doing something like that! ”

“Or you can monetize a hobby,” Declan suggests.

Alia snaps at him, pointing animatedly. “Yes, now you’re cooking.”

“Sure. I’ll start knitting plant holders to sell them on Etsy,” I say, my tone dry.

“See? There you go.” Alia grins.

I hold back the urge to roll my eyes.

I love my friends, but sometimes, they can be a bit delusional—Alia and Nina, at least. Usually, Declan is our voice of reason but tonight, it seems like he’s keeping his mouth shut, probably because the inevitable bickering with Alia isn’t worth it.

She has a good heart. She always does, but there are times when her outlook on life skews from reality.

This is one of those times.

Selling knitted items on Etsy to cover rent and make an actual living… Who in their right mind can afford taking a pay cut for that long until their business can pick up traction? Not me and absolutely not, in my landlord’s opinion.

I sigh.