18. Tori
TORI
Balancing a stack of mail and a bag of Chinese take-out in one hand, backpack weighing me down with texts, my purse and keys in the other, I managed to unlock the front door of the condo and burst into the foyer, all but collapsing on the marble tiles.
I took a deep breath, smiling with relief at the fact that I was home at last. Then I set the food on the entry table, along with the mail, and bent to unlace my boots, letting the stress of the day roll off of me.
“Stefan?” I called out. No response.
I wasn’t sure if he’d be home this early or not, but I was looking forward to a cozy night in together.
It had been one disaster after another at school—first I’d struggled with conjugations in Latin (Me!
Vice president of my high school Latin club!
Official Latin tutor of my study group!), and with my mind still stewing on that failure, I’d confidently given the answer to a verbal pop quiz in my Slavic languages class… in Latin.
Though my answer had technically been correct, it had taken a few seconds of the class laughing at me before I’d realized my reply had been in the wrong tongue entirely.
My professor had smiled and told me to try again, but at that point I could feel my face burning and I knew nobody even heard me correct myself.
Still, despite the fact that it had been embarrassing in the moment, I’d gotten through it.
I knew I’d be able to come home that evening and tell Stefan about it, and we’d both laugh.
He still teased me about the day I’d been engaging in conversational Russian in front of the class and had told my partner I was afraid of khuy—thinking I was using the correct word for needles.
It turned out modern slang words for “penis” evolved faster than my textbook had.
I could hear shuffling in the other room, and I knew it wasn’t Gretna since she had the night off.
“Stefan?”
As I stepped into the living room, swinging the heavy bag of lo mein, kung pao, and egg rolls, a man in head-to-toe charcoal grey turned away from the art hanging on the walls and toward me.
It wasn’t my husband. Instead of Stefan’s handsome, confident, familiar face, all I saw was the stern visage of his father and the grim expression he wore. Konstantin.
He was like a bad omen brought to life, and my good mood immediately vanished. Dread washed over me, and I suddenly had the urge to run out back out the door and hide out in a nearby coffee shop until I knew Stefan was back.
But I refused to let this man chase me away. Even if I feared him.
“Mr. Zoric. We weren’t expecting you. Are you enjoying the art?” I asked pleasantly.
All of the paintings in the condo were the work of Stefan’s mother Danica—Konstantin’s wife—and I wondered if seeing her art here had affected the man at all, had reminded him of his dearly departed.
Though Konstantin tended to either ignore me or size me up like a piece of meat, perhaps we’d finally talk like two humans.
It wouldn’t change the fact that I knew he was a bad man, one who did despicable things, but I could at least play nice until Stefan got home.
“My wife painted what was inside her head,” Konstantin said, unsmiling. “She was a troubled woman. I prefer art that is nice to look at.”
Inside, I bristled. Stefan loved these paintings.
They’d grown on me as well. They had a modern edge, with thick paint, dark colors, and stormy skies, but they were also gorgeous.
The longer you looked at them, the more you saw the hints of beauty hiding in the shadows.
Danica had painted patches of wildflowers.
Birds. Fingers of sunlight breaking through a forest canopy.
“They do say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I said, trying to keep things neutral. “I guess sometimes you just have to look a little harder.”
“What would you know about having to look for beauty?” he sneered. “You’ve always had it right outside your window, growing up in a life of luxury and ease. You didn’t have to immigrate to this country from a land of hardship, unlike some of us.”
His words stung. “I may have been privileged—”
But he didn’t let me finish. Konstantin was on a roll. “Oh no, little girl. You don’t get to tell me. I worked my ass off my entire life to secure visions of beauty. I wasn’t born into it. Nobody handed it to me. I did it the hard way. My way.”
As he’d ranted and railed at me, I’d subconsciously backed further and further away from him. Now I was almost up against a literal wall, my adrenaline spiking.
How dare he stand there and try to shame me for the way I’d been raised, when his own good fortune had been built from the exploitation and subjugation of others.
And he had the audacity to stand here and talk himself up, as if he’d actually done the hard work himself—instead of manipulating, coercing, and threatening people to get where he was now.
“Where’s my son?” he barked. “I came here to see him, not stand around wasting time with his wife’s pointless small talk.”
“I’m not sure exactly where he is at the moment,” I said, my fake smile slipping. “But he should be home soon. I can call him for you—”
“You think I didn’t try that? He’s not answering!” Konstantin shot back.
“He’s probably just out somewhere having a meeting,” I said placatingly. “With his phone off. I’m sure we’ll hear from him as soon as he gets out.”
“No. He has no meetings.” My father-in-law was shaking his head, but he looked at me and in his narrowed gaze I saw loathing and rage. “He’s too distracted lately. Never where he’s supposed to be. Never picking up his phone. And I know it’s because of you.”
“Excuse me? You think I’m the distraction?”
His finger pointed in my face. “You’re the reason he can’t focus. You’re the reason he’s not on top of his game anymore. The second he married you, everything started going to shit.”
Konstantin took a step closer. My heart was pounding, but I’d had enough.
“I’m sure you’d love to place the blame on me,” I said, dropping my voice to a steely register, “but maybe he’s starting to realize how much better life can be when KZM isn’t dictating every minute of his schedule.
Maybe he’s starting to realize he can breathe easier outside of the KZ family.
You know, where people actually have ethics. And obey the law.”
Before I could even blink, Konstantin was on me, his hand around my throat, my body slammed up against the wall. I gasped in shock and fear.
It was exactly the kind of thing I normally enjoyed my husband doing—and in a flash my mind replayed the memory of Stefan throwing me into the wall the other day, similarly aggressive—but this was completely different.
With Stefan, I had wanted it, wanted him.
His forceful behavior was an act of passion, not a threat, and he knew exactly how far to push me.
He never caused me any actual pain. Instead, he walked the fine line between dominance and restraint, the air between us charged with an undeniable sexual chemistry, so intense that I had no hope of resisting it. But this?
This wasn’t that.
This was terrifying. This was dangerous. I was clawing at Konstantin’s hand, my breaths becoming labored and difficult as he practically choked me with the tightness of his grip.
“Talk to me like that again, and I’ll slap you so hard you won’t be able to speak,” he growled at me.
I felt my blood go cold as he held me against the wall, his fingers thick and hard against my throat.
His cologne was overpowering, his body like a wall, and the more I struggled, the harder it was to get a breath.
I was panicking. If only I could close my eyes and disappear, completely disconnect from this moment, from my body.
Even though he wasn’t a tall man, he was strong, and he’d pinned me to the wall high enough that I was standing on my tiptoes.
But I couldn’t find solid ground beneath me, the soles of my shoes scrambling against the glossy hardwood of the living room floor.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” Konstantin ground out, his face coming closer, his sour breath making me flinch. “Where. Is. Stefan?”
I wanted to spit in his face. Wanted to knee him in the crotch and run. Wanted to scream. Wanted to escape.
But I knew I couldn’t do any of that. If I spit at him, he’d hurt me worse. If I managed to knee him in the balls, he’d probably double over for a second but still be able to grab me before I got out of the apartment. If I screamed, he’d tighten his grip on me.
There was no escape.
“I don’t know,” I croaked, shaking my head.
It was the truth, but I could tell that he didn’t believe me.
“You lying little whore,” he said. “You think you’re different, don’t you?
You think you’re better than the women I hire, the women I sell?
You’re the same. You might be a kept woman here, but there’s no difference between you and the whores who spread their legs when I tell them to.
” With each word, his fingers tightened around my neck.
“We could just as easily keep you in a cage as in a penthouse,” he said.
I couldn’t breathe. My fingers came up again to scrape at his hands.
I was desperate for air, desperate for freedom.
He laughed at my efforts, my attempts to free myself from his clutches.
The world around me began to go dark at the edges—my lungs desperate for oxygen, my vision blurring.
All I saw was Konstantin and his cold, leering face.
But before everything went black, I heard the door to the condo slam open.