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)
The last time I had a slice of mедови́к was on my thirteenth birthday. I saw it on the table at Aleena’s sixteenth and eighteenth birthday parties. I was removed from the festivities before I could pass on any verbal well-wishes to the birthday girl, much less sample her favorite cake.
At her sixteenth, I was tossed out with a man I discovered was Aleena’s first official boyfriend. During the twenty-minute drive to Bayli’s home, I learned that he and Aleena had been dating secretly for six months. Aleena had hoped introducing Bayli to our mother during her birthday celebration would force her to take the news of their union with more acceptance.
If Aleena had told me about her plan, I would have suggested that she continue keeping her relationship status a secret.
For the short time I was with Bayli, he seemed like a typical high school jock. He was also polite, well-spoken, and on course for an above-average GPA.
He merely lived four miles in the wrong direction.
Middle class is not good enough for a Sakharoff. Upper class barely makes the cut. If your family’s bank accounts are below eight figures, you will never be invited into my mother’s tight inner circle.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when Stasy taps her finger on the business card now trembling in my hand. “Go here. Have cake with the birthday girl. Smile.”
I nod. “I will.”
Any type of affection is frowned upon in my family, but before I can consider the consequences of my actions, I throw my arms around Stasy’s neck and hug her fiercely. I melt when she hugs me back.
After an embrace warm enough to restart my frozen heart, I murmur, “Thank you.”
I race out of the cold and sterile mansion I’ll never call home before Stasy or my mother can see the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.
4
ANDRIK
The rusted shell of Zoya’s ride is surprising when I pull my prototype Marussia sports car to the front of the address I memorized from her file. I have mansions dotted across the country, and a handful of my grandfather’s residences could be mistaken for castles, but I’m still in awe of the size of Zoya’s home. It is vast, with multiple stories and a long line of garages that no doubt house as many foreign cars as the homemade models my marketing team is endeavoring to get off the ground.
I climb out of the driver’s seat of my low ride at the same time the front door of the suburban mansion pops open. I’m not surprised to see a middle-aged man dressed to the nines. Tuxedo-donned butlers are the norm in this part of Russia.
“Sir,” the man greets, his chin lowering to his chest in respect. “What a pleasure it is to welcome you to the Sakharoff residence.”
His wordless acknowledgment that he is aware of who I am isn’t shocking—my face is as notable as my notoriety—but his introduction to the residence I am being invited into is.
I don’t know why I am surprised. Women aren’t seen as an equal commodity in my industry. Rarely are they permitted to speak their father’s name, much less attach it to their given name, so Zoya having a different last name from the owner of her house could be a common practice.
My fists ball, ready for warfare, when “Kazimir, darling” pierces my ears.
I should have realized no one with this type of wealth would reference me any other way.
My given name is veiled with centuries of wealth and political mongering. It has also been the name of our president for over seventeen years and is only ever used by people who know of me instead of truly knowing me.
When a woman in her mid-fifties floats across veined floors, I stop seeking familiarities I may have missed since my dick took center stage during my entrance to the mega-mansion. She has unblemished skin and a fit body, but even while seeking a one-night-only acquaintance, I will never overlook my sole requirement.
I don’t fuck women old enough to be my mother or young enough to be my daughter, meaning Mrs. Sakharoff tiptoed over the cutoff line in the past year or two.
“I’m so glad you’ve finally accepted my invitation.” Mrs. Sakharoff leans in to kiss my cheeks, shrouding me with the perfume she put on in a hurry. It has that recently sprayed scent and is still wet on her neck. “How is your father? His campaign? Well, I hope.”
“He is good.” My reply is abrupt. I didn’t come here to talk about my father or his bid for an office closer to my grandfather’s grandeur one. Only one thing is on my mind. Or should I say, one person? “Is Zoya here?”
Mrs. Sakharoff balks for the quickest second before she murmurs, “Who, dear?”
I wait for her to excuse her butler from the living room before following her to the liquor cabinet so she can pour herself a generous nip of clear liquor. “Zoya. This is the address cited on her medical record.”