Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
71
ZOYA
When my footing slips, I stab my nails into the moss-coated brickwork bordering the massive gardens of Andrik’s family estate. The weather in this part of Russia is as poor as Myasnikov’s nine months of winter. It is dewy out, and the denseness of the fog almost had me tumbling out of the window I pried open with a letter opener I’d found on Andrik’s desk.
As I take a moment to settle my frantic breaths, I think back to the news Dr. Leverington announced seconds before ignoring my request for him not to share the results with Andrik.
I wanted to tell him myself, under better circumstances.
I didn’t want it shared as if it was an asset he was purchasing on the black market.
In a way, I’m glad Dr. Leverington has no respect for women’s rights. If he hadn’t told Andrik the news, I wouldn’t have overheard Andrik organizing an abortion for our unborn child.
I’ve never read someone so poorly before. Yes, it is sudden, and I’m shit fucking scared of stuffing this up as badly as my mother did, but Andrik’s contract with Aleena demanded haste. Immediate steps were put into place so she could fulfill his wish to become a family man, so why is he so quick to disregard the welfare of our unborn child?
I don’t have time to sit around and deliberate, so I continue scaling down one of the many rock fence walls that divide massive country estates. I’m wearing a raincoat over the shirt I stole from Andrik’s room and rain boots I found in a garden shed on the edge of the pebbled driveway. It is freezing, but the raincoat and rain boots are lined with fleece, so my heart is the only thing needing defrosting.
Untrusting of the people in properties directly bordering Andrik’s country estate, I follow the road for several miles before crossing into familiar territory. I haven’t been in this part of Russia before, but all projects are the same. They’re filled with people more willing to help since it is those who have the least who give the most.
“Thank you,” I murmur when a lady with a mouthful of rotting teeth places a blanket over my shoulders. When a banana is thrust my way next, I shake my head. “I’m good. Thank you.” I can’t take her food, especially not with my stomach as full as it is. “I will get this back to you.” I tug on the blanket keeping my shoulders warm. “I promise.”
She sheeshas off my promise before pushing a cart full of blankets down the street dotted with homeless people. She hands them blankets similar to the one she gave me and smiles a toothless grin when they greedily accept the banana I denied.
When I made my plan to escape, I had no clue which direction I should walk. I can’t immediately go to Nikita because that is the first place Andrik would look, though she is also the one person I need to speak with the most.
I lose the chance to deliberate when the bang of a truck’s loading doors booming closed break through the quiet. I race to catch the delivery driver before he can slip into the driver’s seat. He could be going in any direction, but the symbol on the side of his van has me confident he is heading in the same direction as me.
It is the catering company responsible for feeding Myasnikov Private Hospital patients each day.
“Hey, I was wondering if I could get a lift with…” My words trail off when the face that peers back at me registers as familiar.
Nikita was right. Boris’s mother gave him a nickname that matches his bulldog face.
The farce is worse when his features are weighed down with confusion. “Zoya?”
I wipe my riled expression from my face before stepping out from beneath the shadow of the streetlight. “Hey, Boris. What are you doing out this way?”
“Um…” He hooks his thumb to the van. “Dropping off some supplies for my side gig.” He nervously shifts from foot to foot. “The hospital doesn’t pay enough to cover all my expenses.”
“You’re preaching to the wrong girl.” My underhanded invitation for him to bring Nikita into our conversation works well.
“Is Nikita here with you?” He peers past me like my raincoat and rain boots are designer, and we’re on the sidewalk of the hottest nightclub in the country.
“No. She’s… Ah… She is…” After a groan of a defeated woman, I snap out, “She’s at home with her husband.”
Boris gives off creeper vibes, so I can’t thrust Nikita under his spotlight no matter how desperate I am.
His eyes snap back to mine. “She is?” When I nod, he stammers. “Oh…” He wets his mouth like the knowledge she is at home is more shocking than the news she is married. “I didn’t realize she had gotten married.”