Page 83 of Deceitful Vows

When I check the side mirror to make sure I can pull onto the street safely, a woman in a sparkly gold dress captures my attention. I’m not perving. What interest could I have in another woman when the arousal of the very definition of a goddess is still on my lips? It is recalling where I’ve seen her before, and how a refresher in my attitude could help me more than disadvantage me that secures my devotion.

“And reach out to Lilia. I need her help with something.”

Konstantine grunts in understanding as I pull onto an almost isolated street.

30

ZOYA

My heart beeps in my neck when my brief scroll of the social media site I only joined an hour ago has me stumbling onto an event I’ve been seeking for the past two days. It isn’t “the” event, but it is one of the biggest indicators that Shevi’s confession was true, and that nothing that happened after it was imagined as my groggy head tried to convince my heart.

Aleena is getting married, and her bachelorette party is only two short weeks away.

I searched Aleena’s name for hours after I woke up to an empty yet spicy-scented bed the morning following my botched interview. Nothing came up. Not a single thing. The search results were as blank as I tried to make my hazy memories from the night before.

I was beginning to wonder if Aleena had changed her name like I had when I was forced to grow up years too soon, and then a similarity for the upcoming nuptials presented.

Almost every article started with the groom’s name followed by “and his fiancée.” Not even the brides with as much wealth and power as their male counterparts were mentioned by name.

It reminded me that Russia still has a long way to travel before it can remove bigamist from its dictionaries, and although my life isn’t close to glamorous, it could be worse.

I could be so worthless to Andrik that not a single article of our quickie marriage made it to print.

I hate admitting this, but when my search of Aleena’s impending nuptials failed to yield a single result, I switched my focus to the man responsible for the furious thud raging through my body.

Andrik is a common name in Russia, but its upsurge in popularity over the past twenty years didn’t hinder my search. I couldn’t find a single press release about his wedding, much less an in-depth article, and mercifully, I located no other “family” announcements, either.

Guilt will always crash down on me when Andrik’s devastating blue eyes and cut jaw enter my thoughts, but I’d rather be a mistress than a homewrecker.

My skin quivers with more than annoyance when Nikita sneaks up on me unawares. “Whatcha looking at?”

Once I’ve ensured my heart stays in my chest, I twist my phone screen around to face her.

Her eyes gleam as brightly now as they did when I arrived with a ton of greasy breakfast treats one of my elderly neighbors was going to throw out if I didn’t accept them. She had cooked too much for a family gathering, so she distributed trays of leftovers to everyone in our building. I was still reeling in the effects of a horrific hangover, so there was no way I was going to say no to crispy strips of bacon. It was also nice to shower Nikita and her grandparents with treats for a change. They’re usually always feeding me.

“Oh my god. You found it.”

My words come out breathy. “It’s not the wedding, but?—”

“It’s close enough.”

She slots onto the bed next to me before offering me one of her ghastly vitamin waters. I shake my head, unwilling to test my stomach so soon after its last exodus. I didn’t make it out of bed for over an hour yesterday.

When Nikita spots the signs of dehydration my scaly skin is struggling to conceal, she eyes me like she’s not above waterboarding me to replenish my body with the fluids it so desperately needs. I accept the bottle and take a hesitant sip.

It isn’t as ghastly as I remember, but it isn’t great either.

I’d much prefer coffee.

After a handful more sips, I calculate how long it will take for us to get to the Trudny District from Myasnikov, and an approximate cost. Nikita has to come with me. I can’t see the guest list since I’m not an official group member, and my ego is too fragile from the multiple hits it has endured over the past month to consider facing my mother alone again.

“You’ll have to fly,” Nikita murmurs, her mind reading skills at full capacity since we’re practically joined at the hip. Her “bed” is as saggy as my couch. “It will take too long to drive, and the cost to hire a car would be outrageous.”

She thinks Mikhail’s contribution to her grandfather’s breathing machine is because I sold my rusted bomb. I haven’t had the heart to tell her I left it in the basement of a man’s building because I can’t trust myself around his brother for half a second. My shameful act two nights ago proves this without fault.

“Not to mention the conditions,” Nikita murmurs, returning my focus to the task at hand. “You can’t drive in snowy conditions even when it’s not snowing.”

Since nothing she said is dishonest, I don’t argue. Instead, I veer my search to the cheapest available airline before placing two people in the ticket search bar.

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