Page 25 of Wicked Arrangement

“I’m sorry about your parents. Was it…?” she trails off, unsure how to ask what she wants to know.

“It wasn’t an accident, or natural, if that’s what you’re wondering. They were murdered,” I reply, I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. I don’t like to think about my parents.

She lets out a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, that’s terrible. Did they catch who did it?”

I shake my head, “No. We have a pretty good idea who it was, but there wasn’t enough evidence.”

Kim reaches out a hand and rests it on my arm, stroking it comfortingly. I tense, feeling uncomfortable with this sort of tender interaction. I don’t give her time to speak, wanting the conversation to be over.

“It was a long time ago—I was sixteen. I’ve moved on, learned to deal with it, and accept it. Someday the man responsible will get what’s coming to him,” I state coldly.

Kim, evidently picking up that I don’t want to talk further about it, doesn’t ask any more questions. We continue to drive in silence. After a short while, Kim sits up straighter in her seat, looking out of the window.

“We’re not far from my apartment. Do you think we could stop by so I can grab some stuff?” she asks.

I’m tempted to say no, that I can get her anything she needs. A small, irrational side of my brain wants to drive her back to mine and not let her leave, fearing that if she goes home, she won’t come home with me. But curiosity gets the better of me. I want to see where she lives.

Chapter 14

Kim

The moment we enter the apartment, I regret asking to come. Compared to Yaroslav’s mansion, this may as well be a crack den. The whole place seems smaller and more shabby than I remember. The living room is stifling hot, stuffy, and dark, I fling open the curtains and crack a window, trying to air it out. But that has the downside of allowing the cacophony of noises in from outside. Car horns blaring, a baby nearby wailing, and the sounds of a heated argument from the couple next door over the television, turned up too loud to try to drown them out but simply exacerbating the situation.

Yaroslav looks so out of place in my world, his impressive frame seeming to take up too much space in the small room. He stands there, surveying the room, his expression neutral. He’s too polite to show his disdain of course, but I can only imagine what he must think.

“You must think this is like some sort of dump,” I say, trying and failing to sound jovial.

A small furrow appears between his eyes. “Not at all. Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”

I appreciate him trying to make me feel better, though I doubt someone like Yaroslav has been in poorer areas than this. “It’s not much, but it’s home,” I reply with a shrug before adding, “Can I get you anything? A drink maybe?” As I say this,I frantically think if we even have anything I could offer him. Water and tea are the only likely candidates.

Mercifully, he declines. “No, thank you.”

“Okay, wait right there and I’ll just go grab some stuff,” I instruct.

He inclines his head in silent agreement, and I dash off to my room. I don’t need much since he’s already provided me with a whole wardrobe and cosmetics. I grab my sketchbook, watercolors, pencils, and some other art supplies. I also get the brand of curl cream I like for my hair and some tampons and sanitary towels, something Yaroslav had unsurprisingly overlooked. My periods aren’t that regular since I started getting the birth control shot, but since I could end up staying longer than anticipated, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. The last thing I want is to have to have an awkward conversation asking him to buy me some. I cram everything into a duffle bag and turn to leave.

“Jesus! Yaroslav, you made me jump!” I exclaim in surprise as I turn to see him standing in the doorway, casually leaning against the doorframe. “I thought I told you to stay put!”

He shrugs, “Sorry, curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see your room.”

I cringe, thinking about the state of my room. It’s in a mess, a whirlwind of discarded clothing on the floors and chairs, half-finished pieces of artwork, and interior design sketches fill every square of wall space. The room is only big enough to fit my single bed, a small desk, and my pottery wheel, which dominates most of the room. The walls and floor around it are covered inthe clay-splattered tarp I put up to protect them from the worst of the mess.

Yaroslav spots it and cocks an eyebrow. “You sculpt?”

“Yes, when I have the time. Or I like to sketch.”

He strolls inside, admiring the artwork on the walls. “You’re good. Why don’t you pursue it as a career?” he asks.

I hold back from rolling my eyes. Of course, the billionaire would assume I can just become an artist and forget the responsibilities I have. “Because I have bills to pay. I wanted to go to art and design school in New York and maybe become an interior designer, but then Gran got sick so…”

He nods thoughtfully before walking toward the pottery wheel. “Will you teach me?”

“You want to learn how to use a pottery wheel?” I ask incredulously.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Well, for starters, it will ruin your clothes,” I point out.

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