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He opens the car door and ushers me inside. I don’t read into the gesture; some people are just hardwired that way. It’s a luxury SUV with plenty of space for me to slide far the fuck away from Demyen, which is exactly what I do the second I get in there.
I listen to the doors slam shut and find something fascinating enough to focus on… like, I don’t know, the back stitching of the driver’s seat… so I don’t have to look at him, either.
We ride for a few moments in silence. We might get through this without another fight.
“When we get there,” Demyen breaks the silence with his smooth voice, “you’re to play the part of my perfect girlfriend.”
I just continue to stare at the stitching and pretend like I don’t hear him.
“This isn’t a request.”
“Nothing ever is.” I barely hear myself talk; I don’t know if he hears me.
But he pulls in a breath and shifts in his seat. Then, “You are to be nice, pleasant, and respectable. You are representing me and my estate. We have a lot riding on tonight and I need you to be cooperative. Don’t cause trouble.”
I can’t help myself. My pain-turned-grief is now shifting into anger once more. I slide on the most seductively coy smile and slowly flutter my long lashes at him. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Zakrevsky. I’m always happy toescortyou… for the right price.”
“How about Willow’s safety?” He calmly plucks a piece of lint from his sleeve and flicks it away. “Is that a fair price?”
My stomach drops. So does the act. “You wouldn’t.”
Demyen meets my gaze with steely coldness. “Do not presume to know what I would and would not do, Ms. Everett. I’m a monster, remember?”
A lump suddenly forms in my throat. “No. You’re not.”
That glacial facade fractures for the briefest of moments. His face almost softens; he looks like he wants to say something else. Something different. But then it’s back in the blink of an eye.
“As usual, Ms. Everett, you’re wrong about that.”
I return to studying leather stitching and pray that offering my life to Demyen on a silver platter is enough to keep my daughter safe. He doesn’t even need to ask the question, not really.
I’d give anything for my girl.
The second he opens the car door, I feel like I’m gonna puke my guts out.
It’s all an act. I know it is.
That doesn’t make it any easier when he steps out ahead of me, plasters on a brilliant smile, then offers me his hand to help me out like the doting boyfriend he’s pretending to be.
All of this would have been so much easier to endure a month ago.
Back when I didn’t know who he was behind the name, behind the glamor and the charm, behind the mask he wears within his own world.
Back when I didn’t have the memory of his arms around me, his lips on my skin, permanently seared like a brand I don’t want to get rid of but can’t stand to see.
Or the whispers caressing my ears, reminding me that he’ll never let me go.
I am his, and he is mine.
That’s what we’re supposed to make everyone believe—and as we walk under the golden statue of the Goddess of Fortune, Lady Luck, whatever she’s called, I feel like I need all the luck in the world to pull this charade off.
Men in white tuxedos greet us in the foyer and immediately lead us away from the main floor to a quieter, more private hall. A few turns later, with some stiffened support from Demyen’s arm as Inavigate in these stupid stiletto heels, we’re led into an immense ballroom with crystal chandeliers and gilded columns.
It’s… a cocktail party.
All this, for a cocktail party?
Demyen takes my hand in his and wraps his other arm around the small of my back. The gesture is intimate. Borderline affectionate.
