Page 12 of Deceitful Vows

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.”

I’m not a man who will ever tiptoe around, particularly when it is something I want.

I want Zoya—desperately.

“I met her earlier and would like to finish the discussion we commenced before we were interrupted.”

“You saw this address on…Zoya, was it?” she checks. When I nod, she continues. “If you saw this address on Zoya’s medical record, you must have been perusing it at Stoltz and Hemway.”

Again, I nod, hopeful it will hurry her along.

I am not a patient man in general, and my interest in Zoya has siphoned the cup empty.

“Then there’s the cause of the mix-up, dear. My daughter attended an appointment there earlier today. Perhaps some information in their patient records got mixed up.” She screws the cap back onto the engraved bottle before pivoting to face me, nursing the overzealous serving as if it is a glass of water. “She was previously outside the criteria you had set, but made the cut earlier today.” She checks her watch, her smile picking up as she says, “At 11:03 a.m., to be precise.”

“Today is your daughter’s birthday.”

“Yes,” she answers as if I was asking a question. I wasn’t. “She just turned twenty-two, making her, no doubt, an ideal candidate for your current political campaign.”

“Just,” I quote, my annoyance picking up.

A woman’s warmth wrapped around my cock for the first time just shy of my fourteenth birthday. I am now thirty-five. That puts a twenty-two-year-old on the cusp of being young enough to be my daughter.

“I’m not being biased when I say she is exactly what you are seeking.”

Mrs. Sakharoff drags her finger along a long line of photographs on the mantel before she stops at one that looks recent. All the pictures are of one girl. A young blonde-haired, blue-eyed preteen with an almost doll-like complexion.

“My youngest daughter is well-spoken, smart, and reared for a dignitary.” Her eyes return to mine. “She is aware of her self-worth, but even more than that, she understands her place.” My neck thrums when she murmurs, “She is also untouched.”

As she hands the framed photo to me, the butler announces that Mrs. Sakharoff has a guest. She looks panicked until he adds words to his interruption. “The birthday girl has returned.”

“Lovely.” She snatches the frame out of my hand and returns it to the mantel before twisting me to face the formal entrance of the living room. “Her beauty can’t be captured in an image. It is far better to witness her loveliness in person.”

I’m about to snarl out a warning for her to remove her hands from my back before I use more than words to remove them, but the clumsy stumble of a platinum blonde halts my words.

My cock pays more attention to her near trip than the generous swell of her breasts, and her staggered walk has me convinced it wasn’t the addresses muddled up in Dr. Hemway’s patients’ records.

It was their names.

I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t hopeful their diagnosis was also awry.

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