Page 11 of Deceitful Vows

“Tell Aleena I was here.” With my tone more angst riddled than I am aiming for, I tack on a quick, “Please,” before I farewell my mother with a dip of my chin and shadow Stasy out of the den.

Once I am confident we’re without prying eyes, I pull out the birthday card I had hoped to hand deliver and slowly veer it toward Stasy. It’s plumped out with a handful of the letters that were returned to my apartment unopened and unread over the past year.

“No, Ms. Zoya. Please don’t make me.” Her English is broken, but I have no trouble understanding the pure agony in her tone. “Mrs. Sakharoff be mad. She won’t forgive.” She pushes the card back my way. “I no do it. I want no trouble.”

“But…” I hate myself for pushing. The worry in her beautifully unique eyes reveals that every word she speaks is true. Her fret is very much warranted, and I hate it even more than how quickly I backtrack on the sole purpose of my visit to Chelabini. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Her relieved sigh hits the back of my neck as she assists me into my coat. Once it covers my shoulders, hanging lower than they were minutes ago, she spins me around to help pull my hair from the collar.

“It’s okay. Leave it. I don’t need to impress anyone.” My low words expose my confrontation with my mother hurt me more than I will ever admit.

I could beg that woman to love me. I could fall to my knees and promise a loyalty she would never be able to replicate, and she would still turn me away.

That’s how much she hates me.

“Goodbye, Stasy.”

An icy breeze cools my mother’s handprint for half a second before a warm hand curls around my elbow to tug me back into the overheated foyer.

I peer at Stasy with my brows stitched when she hands me a business card for a local hotel. I’m not looking forward to the three-hour drive home. Beggars can’t be choosers, however. I can’t afford a dingy motel on the outskirts of town, let alone one with business cards with elegant gold-embossed font.

My eyes shoot up to Stasy when she says, “You should stop in for tea.??????´?best in the country.” My heart beats double-time when a rare smile raises her cheeks. “Source very reliable. She knows her cakes.”

Aleena is obsessed with the creamy honey cake our mother would only let us eat on special occasions. She was adamant the repercussions of a regular sugary treat would make us more undesirable than a possible infertility issue.

The last time I had a slice ofm?????´?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.

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