Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“I don’t care what happens to him.” My words are urgent, my tone beseeching. “This is not fair. I won’t do this for him.”
“You are right. This will not do.” A tentative relief floods my system. At least, until I notice the expression he’s wearing. “There are other ways,” he begins carefully. “Ways we might find mutually beneficial.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” My brain doesn’t. My skin, however, feels like it might peel away from my skeleton and slither away because he’s back to looking at me that way. Anatoli Aslanov is far from repulsive. He’s well dressed and not bad looking. Intelligent and mostly polite. He’s also frightening and what he’s suggesting makes him repulsive—makes him about as appealing as a bout of dysentery and tetanus at the same time.
“You’re being coy,” he remonstrates playfully.
“No, excuse me, but I think perhaps I’m being a little dense because you can’t be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” I say as my heart gives a manic flutter. “I don’t even know you. I don’t—” A horrible thought hits and my mouth runs away with itself. “Is this where I get trafficked? Forced into some backstreet brothel, touted as posh—?”
Laughter leaves his eyes like a light going out. “I don’t like to be made fun of.”
“W-Who’s laughing?” I stutter. My stomach twists, my hands on my lap along with it. “He is my ex-husband. I owe him nothing. I have no love for him and very little respect. In fact, I have no respect for him at all.” Not after this. “You must have exes? Mr. Aslanov, you know how these things work.” I’m not doing this—I’m not! I’ll beg, borrow, and steal if I have to. Tom will have to leave, start afresh in some other country. Somewhere cheap and hot, with mosquitos the size of—
“My exes cause me no problems,” he answers darkly.
“A b-business arrangement is one thing,” I stutter, “but another kind of arrangement is beyond my realms of comprehension.”
“I know you understand,” he says, reaching across the table to pat my hand.
“But… but I might be terrible in bed!”
“I don’t think so.” His eyes are acquisitive as they rake over me. As I make to pull away my hand, his fingers fasten around my wrist. “You can open your legs. Your mouth. It’s enough.”
“No, it’s too much,” I say, stiff jawed with repulsion.
“I think you’ll find you have little choice.” With his free hand, he reaches for the newspaper and, without unfolding it, he places it over the gold rimmed tea plate in front of me. “You will do what needs to be done to protect your family.”
“How many times do I have to say this?” I glance down at the headline. For a split second, it doesn’t compute as my brain works to protect itself. “Tom is not my family.”
Even as I protest, my brain is trying to protect me from this new reality.
This has nothing to do with Tom. Not anymore. But one thing is clear. My life will never be the same again.
25
Isla
“Hello, Holland?” I hold my phone so hard my fingers ache. This is my fourth attempt at making this call, all the ones before ending in tears. Inhaling, I pull the phone from my mouth as I blow out a long, slow breath.
“Hey, Isla! That was fast. You need picking up from the airport already?”
“Oh. No. Not yet.” Maybe not ever.
Steady now. Don’t cry. Keep it together.
Today has been a day of revelations. You might say I’ve learned a few things. Like how I can withstand more terror than I ever thought was previously possible. That the staff at The Ritz don’t bat an eyelid as you sprint through the space with panicked eyes and jagged breaths. Also, Darjeeling tastes much more bitter coming up than it does going down.
“Hey, you still there?”
“Yes—yes, I’m here. And no, I don’t need a lift yet. I’m still in London.” Still in The Ritz, though no longer in the restaurant. My potential pimp-cum-boyfriend-cum- whatever the hell he was offering me has left. At least, according to the intel of the next person to wander into the lady’s bathroom. I actually asked a matron in a pink suit to go and check, after describing to her where he was seated and what he looked like. The poor old dear thought he was an abusive boyfriend and asked me if I wanted to borrow her phone to call the police. I almost said yes. But the newspaper burning in my purse says I don’t really have that option.
“My flight isn’t due back until six,” I add, hiking my purse higher on my shoulder as though the headline weighs a ton. Flights aren’t exactly hourly from London to the Highlands, but I hope I’ll be able to get a seat on a later flight, probably one stuffed full of business types, travelling home to escape the heathen city of London. I can’t wait to escape myself—I want to go home immediately. Hug my boys tight and never let them out of my sight ever again. But I don’t have that luxury. I can’t take this trouble home.