Page 111 of 10 Days to Ruin

It was my father.

So when I ran from home, it felt like I was doing the worst thing that could be done to the man who’d done the worst thing that could be done to me: depriving him of the last daughter he had left.

For fifteen years, I’ve let myself believe that I was doing justice for Jasmine.

Now, I’m remembering that there are other bloody hands out there.

And they just tried to touch me.

Seeing him again… It’s like my past was hitting me in the face. If that wasn’t already insane and horrifying enough, my present then punched my past in the face. Rarely do metaphors appear quite so blunt and literal.

But there they were, two of the three men who’ve most defined my life, brawling it out in the street.

Then one of them scooped me up and took me to a chilly stone fortress to do what: kiss me like he’d never get to kiss me again? Then blast me with the coldest anger I’ve ever felt?

How is thatfair?

So, no—I don’t want to smell like Sasha, either. I’m furious with him. Terrified of him. In so many ways, he’s back to being what he was when he first shook my hand at that gala: a mystery I have no interest in exploring any further.

I just can’t. Some darknesses swallow you up and they will never, ever spit you back out.

I fall asleep like that, still turbaned and toweled.

I wake up hours later to my phone buzzing on my nightstand. I groan and peel myself off the damp sheets, then shuffle over to pick it up. When I see who’s texted, my stomach curdles.

SASHA [9:47 A.M.]:I will be at your apartment in twenty minutes.

SASHA [9:56 A.M.]:Eleven minutes away.

SASHA [10:08 A.M.]:Knock-knock.

SASHA [10:14 A.M.]:?

The fact that he’s texting me is shocking in and of itself. Does he really think we’re going to keep going, after what happened last night?

No. The ten days bullshit is over with. I won’t do this. I’m calling Kosti back and telling him to book the tickets. I’m leaving this place and I’m not coming back ever. I’ll find a way to take Gina and my mom with me, but Sasha and Dragan and Leander and all these power-hungry men can go fuck themselves. Let them marry each other, for all I care.

My fingers tap out an angry response.

ARIEL [10:15 A.M.]:I’m sick. Not coming.

His reply is immediate:Like hell you’re not.

I’m not doing this, either. This back-and-forth bickering. It’s just too exhausting. I leave my phone on the nightstand, shed the towels and step into ratty sweatpants and a too-big tee, then make my way to the kitchen to start brewing tea. My head hurts like I guzzled liquor last night and my throat aches from walking and talking for so long in the cold. Earl Gray is just what the doctor ordered.

But just when the kettle is starting to whine, there’s a knock at my door. I frown and go over. If it’s Sasha, I’m gonna tell him to eat shit, and I’m sure as hell not opening the door for him.

But I peek through the eyehole to see that it’s not Sasha. “Mr. DeMarco?” I ask, confused.

My building super is anxiously passing a key back and forth between his liver-spotted hands. “Hi, Ariel. You alright?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Are you? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he says, still shuffling from foot to foot and rubbing that key in his palms. “Mind opening up? Quick question for you.”

“I’m, uh…” I cast around for a plausible excuse. “Really would prefer not to. I’m not appropriately dressed.”

“It’ll be quick, dear, I promise. I’ve gotta hurry; told the wife I’d be back downstairs in a jiff.”

---