Page 153 of Deceitful Vows

I wait for my message to be delivered and read before dumping my phone onto a side table and moving to the bar. Tonight is the rehearsal dinner for my wedding with Arabella. Although things have moved fast since my ruse was reimplemented, it has been relatively smooth sailing.

It helps that for the majority of the time there has been three thousand miles between Zoya and me.

I knew our reunion wouldn’t be pretty, but it was more brutal since it centered around our joint worry for Mikhail. I could have told her why her feelings for Mikhail are valid, but I’m a selfish prick when I’m being railroaded. My childhood is proof of this. If I hadn’t let them use Mikhail to puppeteer me, we’d both be able to move without invisible strings controlling every step.

As I toss back a three-finger serving of vodka, my phone buzzes. I almost stumble moving for it. I haven’t drunk any less in the past three weeks than the first. A high-functioning alcoholic can hide his intoxication better than the average man.

A cuss ripples through the air when I read Mikhail’s reply. He sent me a thumbs-up emoji without words. That’s the very definition of a brush-off, but since I detect I am being watched by more than the media circus about to become a permanent part of my life, I take any contact as better than silence before storing away my phone.

Kolya, my grandfather’s chief of staff, enters the living room of the penthouse suite hosting my imminent nuptials. “We have a new itinerary for you to look over.” He hands me three stacks of papers for the next twenty-four hours. No, I am not kidding. “Your father was forwarded a copy this morning, so we only require your approval.”

I huff. Approval means nothing when you have no power whatsoever.

“What is the media being told about Zakhar?”

Kolya’s swallow is audible. “At the moment, nothing.” My glare gets him talking almost too fast for his mouth to keep up with. “We don’t want the voters to believe his medical condition influenced your reason to marry?—”

“Even though that is precisely what is happening.”

He acts as if I didn’t speak. “So once his operation is a success and he is well enough for the media coverage his birthright will instigate, a press conference will be held to announce his shocking yet much wanted existence.” Scheming flashes through his eyes. “If we play this right, your father will take over the reins sooner than planned.”

His prediction isn’t shocking. I just never considered I would be a part of the operation for my father’s presidency campaign. I did everything in my youth to ensure I was excluded from any public appearances during his campaign for office. Tattoos. Piercings. Haircuts no one under the age of sixteen should wear. I’ve trialed them all, and up until this point, they worked in my favor.

Now I need to wear my dress shirts fully buttoned up to hide my neck tattoos and hire makeup artists to cover what the collar misses and the ones on my hands. I even removed my nose ring and earring for tonight’s event. I no longer represent the Dokovic bad boy, more a middle-aged schmuck willing to kiss anyone’s ass if it ensures a vote.

I’ve never been more ashamed, and I thought I’d hit the bottom of the barrel when it came to indignity weeks ago.

Needing to keep my headspace clear for the next thirty-plus hours, I drop my focus to the document Kolya handed me.

After a brief scan of the multiple-page itinerary, I almost give my seal of approval.

Almost.

Only one point stops me.

“We can’t move locations. Zakhar is too unwell for transport.”

Kolya nods in agreement. “But we go where his new heart goes.” My unease weakens when he adds, “And his medical team said he will handle the transport better knowing a new heart is waiting for him at the end of his journey.”

His reply returns the thump my heart has been missing for the past few weeks and loosens the strings forcing my movements by a smidge.

It does nothing for the knot in my stomach, though. Carnage is brewing. I just need to hold back the deluge for a few more hours. Zak needs to come first. Once he gets a new heart, I can shift my focus to making the impossible achievable.

61

ZOYA

“Arabella?” One of the many gorgeous dresses Maksim has spoiled Nikita with swishes around her slim thighs when she twists to face me. Her daft expression is cute because of its rarity. “Are we in the right ballroom?”

A heated watch answers her question on my behalf. Maksim left our suite early to finalize some plans he’s been endeavoring to get off the ground for Nikita for the past few weeks. Nikita has been pining after him the entire time. Apparently twenty minutes is too long for soulmates to be apart.

I’d hate to see how she’d handle the weeks I’ve endured.

Although she lights up like a Christmas tree when she spots the cause of the goose bumps breaking across her skin, her feet remain firmly planted next to mine. When she makes a pledge, she keeps it—even if it kills her.

“Arabella is Aleena’s middle name.” After looping my arm around Nikita’s elbow, I commence moving us into the room that’s had my stomach in a state of turmoil all day.

I’m nervous about coming face-to-face with my mother again, but the unease making my composure a mess seems like more than ghosts of my past rearing their ugly heads. It feels more present and personal—like a mother’s hate isn’t as personal as it gets.

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