Page 58 of Doctored Vows

When she follows me to my room, I press my finger to my lips, wordlessly requesting she be quiet before squashing my ear to the wall dividing my suite from Maksim’s. “I don’t want to wake him if he’s asleep.”

“He isn’t asleep.” Even though she’s arguing, she presses her ear to the wall, mimicking me.

I can tell the exact moment she hears the same thing as me, as her brows scrunch before worry settles on her face.

Maksim isn’t alone, and his visitor is female and most likely under the age of thirty-five.

“Maybe it’s the TV?” Zoya defends.

“That isn’t the TV,” I reply when the female laughs at something Maksim says. “There’s nothing but infomercials on at this time of the night, and her voice is too young to be an infomercial host.” I almost say too seductive, but my jealousy won’t let me.

My theory is proven accurate when Maksim’s voice breaks over the thud of my heart in my throat. “I appreciate you coming, Raya. I know it is late, and you’ve traveled a long way, but hopefully I made the trip worthwhile.”

“Of course you did.” I gag on the seductive purr of her reply.

I hear Maksim’s smirk when he says, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a chaperon to my car.”

When footsteps move away from us, Zoya and I lock eyes, sharing a million words without a single one escaping our lips, before we sprint for the entryway of our suite like we’re competitors in a marathon.

I curse Zoya’s long legs to hell when she beats me to the peephole. It isn’t a long scold. It only lasts as long as it takes for her throat to work through a stern swallow.

A second after she inches back from the peephole, I spot the cause of her unease. Maksim is guiding a beautiful redhead down the corridor. She would be of similar age to Zoya and me, but her clothing makes her appear far more mature. Her dress hugs her curves—particularly the one Maksim’s hand is hovering near—and her stilettos are the red-bottom ones every woman dreams of owning one day.

When they disappear from view, I spin away from the door and flatten my back against it. I honestly don’t know what emotion to express first. I’m hurt, angry, and so very jealous, but I’m also confused.

Why do all the wonderful things he did tonight and throw them away before getting any accolades for them?

“Maybe he wasn’t expecting me to give it up so easily,” I answer my thoughts.

“No, Nikita. This isn’t on you. And we don’t even know what this is. She could be an acquaintance? Maybe she helped him arrange all the things he did today?” Zoya tries to rationalize.

“His hand was on her ass. They’re more than colleagues.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was near it but not on it.” When I glare at her in disbelief, shocked she’s defending him, she says, “You don’t see how he looks at you. He’s crazy about you.”

“The only thing he’s crazy about is thinking I will let this slide.” When I walk away, her eyes follow me. “It is two in the morning. No one has business meetings at two in the morning.”

Zoya’s giggle when I snag a dining room chair out from under the dining room table frustrates me, but I act like I don’t hear it while shoving the chair under the lock that jangles two seconds after I barricade it.

I beat Zoya to the peephole this time, and I’m glad. She may not have survived the death stare Maksim hits the peephole with when a second swipe of his keycard on the electronic lock fails to disengage the lock.

“Nikita, open the door.” His voice is far calmer than the tightness pinching his face. I inch back from the door when he locks his eyes with the peephole and says, “I know you’re there. I can see your shadow under the door.”

Zoya and I are smart enough not to move—forcing the shadows under the door to dance is the oldest trick in the book—but there’s little we can do to settle our breaths when Maksim says, “You have twenty minutes. If you’re not in my bed in twenty minutes, I will come get you.”

It takes thirty seconds for Maksim’s shadow to move from underneath the door and another thirty seconds for Zoya’s breathing to regulate enough for her to speak. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I’m not going to do a damn thing.”

She stares at me with a dazed look for several long seconds before finally realizing one thing is more capable of stealing my maturity than she is.

My wish to be placed first.

“You want him to fight for your attention.” She thrusts her hand at the door. “You’re disappointed he didn’t knock down that door and drag you to his bed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to sleep on the same sheets he just messed with another woman?”

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