Page 22 of Doctored Vows

“The ninetieth floor,” announces a voice at the back before he leans over my shoulder to scan his room card and select the button at the top of many.

Even if I hadn’t recognized his commanding rumble, there’s no way I could mistake his scent—even more so since his cologne is now mixed with my perfume.

I’m proud that I make it to floor thirty-three before my curiosity gets the better of me.

I only peer back at Maksim for a second, but my gawk is long enough to announce he’s replaced the button-up shirt I stuffed on top of my clothes a second before they commenced deboarding the plane.

He must travel with a selection of shirts, because this is the third one he’s donned in less than twenty-four hours.

With the turmoil in Maksim’s eyes as strong as it was in the seconds prior to him leaving me in the washroom, I return my focus front and center.

Not even a nanosecond later, Zoya leans into my side and whispers, “He wants to fuck you.” She’s quiet, but not enough for a lady with a hearing aid and an apparent disdain for personal space.

The hotel guest who popped my bubble within a second of entering the elevator coughs to demand our attention before she hits us with a cranky glare.

Over narrow-minded people, I crank my neck to Zoya and say, “He did.” I don’t care that we have eavesdroppers. I’m too confused to continue going at it alone. I need help, and who better to get that from than my best friend? “But he doesn’t seem interested anymore.”

“Because…?” Zoya leaves her question open for me to finish on her behalf.

“Because…” I’m clueless. Maksim announced at the start of our exchange that he used my face as inspiration while masturbating the past two weeks, but then he left me on the edge of orgasmic bliss instead of helping me over it. “Because he’s a… patient’s son?” My confusion makes the last half of my reply sound like a question.

I’m not the only one bewildered. Zoya looks constipated as she tries to follow the minimal crumbs I’m laying out. “And that matters how?”

“Because he… I…”

I’m saved from portraying a brain-dead idiot by a likely source.

We are here for her bachelorette party.

“Zoya?” Zoya’s younger sister, Aleena, forms her mouth into an O as tears flood her bloodshot eyes. “You came?” When strands of platinum-blonde hair bounce in the aftermath of Zoya’s nod, Aleena squeals so loud it could shatter glass, before repeating, “You came!”

When she bounds into the elevator with her giggling and bouncing bridesmaids in tow, I’m no longer worried about homicide being cited on my death certificate as it was my mother’s.

Death in a plunging elevator, though. That is now at the top of my list.

And perhaps the narrowed glare of a patient’s unappreciative son.

CHAPTER NINE

The creak of a door slowly closing breaks into the living room of the monstrous suite I’ve been milling in for the past hour.

Zoya cringes about the noise similar to someone dragging their nails down a chalkboard before tiptoeing across the room. “That came many years later than expected, but followed a similar path to what I had envisioned.”

She spent the last hour convincing her sister and her tipsy bridesmaids that 4 a.m. isn’t the best time to go clubbing. That is usually when the good half of society returns from the club scene.

After filling a whiskey glass with a generous serving of vodka, Zoya spins to face me. “Are you sure you’re okay with them staying here with us?”

“I’m sure,” I reply, still unconvinced this is our room.

You can’t really call our hotel room a room. It is more of an apartment with a kitchen, two bedrooms, a grand piano, and an endless supply of liquor.

“Are you sure you didn’t mix up our keycards with Aleena’s? A destination bachelorette party screams old money, and only someone spending their daddy’s money could afford this room.”

Zoya rolls her eyes at the unease in my tone. “I’m reasonably sure Aleena’s room is on the floor she entered the elevator, but it’s hard to get anything out of her when she’s a blubbering idiot.”

There’s no malice in her tone. She is simply trying to act like she’s not delighted by her sister’s excitement that she arrived at her bachelorette party without an official invitation.

“I told you you had nothing to worry about.” After removing the glass from her hand, I wrap her up in a warm hug. “I’m sure she understands why you left.” When her exhale beads condensation on my neck, I add, “And if she doesn’t, I’m not opposed to convincing her otherwise.”

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