Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Hiya.”
"You're finally back. I was waiting for you. We have to finalize the sample details before tomorrow so we can send it off."
“Yeah, okay. Just give me a couple of minutes.” I tried not to sound panicked.
She gave me a funny look. “You okay?”
I forced a smile. “Of course. I just need to make a phone call first.”
“Sure, no problem. Your Chinese is in the microwave btw.”
Then she turned around and went back into the living room. I watched her plop down on the couch and immediately get lost in a reality show on VH1.
I pulled out my phone, my hands trembling slightly. I unlocked it as I hurried to my room. Maxim’s appearance meant that a big shift in my life was about to happen and it would be one I would most probably hate. He would otherwise have never made such a pointless visit. He had no ties with me, and neither I presumed, would he have the spare, unassigned, minutes to squander.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and dialed my father’s number, but he didn't pick up on the first ring like he normally did when I called, and for a moment I wondered where he was... Perhaps he wasn't in Moscow. Budapest then? Or Paris?
I began to scroll through my contacts hastily to look for his other numbers until I realized I was not calling his personal one, the one he kept between us. I dialed again and when it was answered, I collapsed to my bed.
“Dad?” I called out anxiously.
“Moya Printsessa,” he said.
The endearment made me clench my jaw. When my father called me My Princess I always knew it was time to beware. Something horrible was coming my way. “Where are you?”
"New York," he answered in his thick accent. “I landed two hours ago.”
I was confused. “You’re here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”
"I wanted to surprise you." His laughter boomed down the line.
The last surprise from my Dad I enjoyed was when I was seven. Ever since then his surprises just meant bad news for me. “That’s nice,” I said automatically.
“I'm only here until tomorrow evening so come have breakfast with me at my hotel. I'm staying at the Ritz-Carlton. You haven’t bought your own apartment yet, have you?”
I ignored the question. "Why are you only here for one day?”
"I was in Puerto Rico, but I have … business to handle in Moscow so I have to rush back. I stopped by to speak to you.”
My heart sank. I knew then that there was something very wrong.
"What does this have to do with the Ivankovs?" I asked.
"Come to breakfast tomorrow at ten," he instructed, “I'll tell you everything then.”
"I have something important to do tomorrow morning, Dad."
"That jewelry business you're launching? I told you to get people to handle it all for you. Why are you constantly involved?”
I clenched my fist. “Because I want to do it on my own.”
“Hmm … you always were a silly little thing. Well, you will just have to change your plans. I will see you at ten tomorrow morning. I will send a car for you. Ah, marvelous. My food has arrived. Goodnight.”
"Goodnight, Dad,” I said, but he had already hung up.
I went out then. I ate the noodles Britney had microwaved for me. I even put the finishing touches on the sample. When Britney talked to me I gave her all the right answers. But inside I was a seething mass of nerves. I felt it in my bones that tomorrow my life was going to change and there was not a damn thing I could do about it. At the usual time I said goodnight to Britney and I climbed into bed.
Sleep never came.
Chapter Four
Freya
Curled up in my window seat, I watched the dawn arrive. It seemed magical. As if it was going to be taken away from me. Someone once told me the greatest luxury was freedom. Deep down I knew my father was about to snatch away my greatest luxury. How? I did not know yet. But in a few hours all would become crystal clear. For my father did not waste time mincing his words.
As life began in the street below I got into the shower. When I came back out wrapped in a towel, Britney was sitting on my bed, eating a bowl of cornflakes and chocolate milk.
“Morning,” she said brightly.
“Morning,” I said, matching her cheerfulness. I put my towel on the heater and naked went to open my underwear drawer. I took the first set I saw in it and began to dress.
“You never talk about your dad. Is he horrible?”
Horrible? Horrible was not a word I would use to describe him. My father was a repulsive sociopath. A man who was so utterly cold, he lived without compassion, remorse, or conscience. Only two things mattered in his life. The relentless insatiable acquisition of more and more power, and the pursuit of his own pleasure.