Page 34 of 10 Days to Ruin

The idea crystallizes, sharp and dangerous as broken glass. “Makehimdumpme.”

“Bingo.” Gina leans forward, practically vibrating with glee. “Be clingy. Be psycho. Be the girl who names your future children on the first date and tells him about your recurring dream where you’re both dolphins swimming through fields of cotton candy.”

A laugh rips from my throat. “He’d rather shoot me.”

“That’s the point. Men like him want cool girls. Independent girls. Girls who don’t need them.” She ticks off on her fingers. “So be the exact opposite. Don’t be cool; be needy. Don’t be independent; be high maintenance. Make him realize marrying you would not be worth whatever deal he’s trying to make with your father.”

I want so badly to buy into this crazy scheme. But…

“You don’t know Sasha.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “He’s not some fuckboi finance bro who’ll run screaming from commitment. He’s—” I lower my voice, glancing around the office. “He’s dangerous, Gee.”

Gina rolls her chair closer, undeterred. “Then we go nuclear. Stage one: constant contact. I’m talking fifty texts an hour minimum. Hearts, baby animal GIFs, those weird little animated stickers of bears doing yoga.”

Despite everything, I snort. “I might drive myself insane.”

“Stage two,” she continues, warming to her theme, “social media assault. Tag him in every post. Write paragraph-long captions about your eternal love. Make one of those couple accounts—‘#SashaAndArielForever.’ Post badly edited photos of your faces morphed together to see what your babies would look like.”

“He’s not even on social—” I start, then stop. “Actually, that’s perfect. Nothing says ‘unhinged’ like tagging a nonexistent account sixty times a day.”

“Now, you’re getting it!” Gina’s practically bouncing. “Stage three: the pet names. The worse, the better. Schnookums. Babycakes. My little Bratva Bear.”

I choke on my coffee. “Oh, God.”

“Don’t lose steam now because stage four might be the most important. The future planning. Get a wedding Pinterest board. Leave bridal magazines everywhere. Start referring to his apartment as ‘our first home’ and talk about where you’re going to put the nursery.”

I can see it all now. Every awful date I’ve ever had, every red flag I’ve ever dodged—weaponized. I canbecomethem all.

“And,” she continues, “under absolutelynocircumstances do you make anything easy for him, ever. He’ll have to work like a dog for a peck on the cheek. A hug?Nuh-uh,that’s fourth date material at best. A kiss? In your dreams, buddy. You’ll be old and gray before you lock lips. But the whole time, you look like a dime piece every single date. Buy out the whole stock of Honey Birdette and give him a little peek here and there. Drive him crazy and never, ever let him eat.”

At this point, I’m cackling. “You’re evil.”

“I’m brilliant.”

“You’re both.” I smile, and it feels like baring fangs. “But you know what? You’re right. If Sasha Ozerov wants a wife, I’ll give him one straight from his worst fucking nightmares.”

“That’s my girl.” Gina raises her coffee in salute. “Operation Psycho Bride is a go. Just promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“If he doesn’t crack, and you do end up married…” She grins wickedly. “I better be your maid of honor. I’ll give the most emotionally inappropriate toast in wedding history. I’ll tell everyone about that time in college when you?—”

“Stop.” I hold up a hand, laughing despite myself. “If this works, there won’t be a wedding. And if it doesn’t…” I swallow hard. “Well, I might need you to give that toast at my funeral instead.”

“Please. You really think I’d let him kill you?” She pulls me into a fierce hug. “We’ve got this, Ariel. Ten days to make Sasha Ozerov regret ever hearing your name.”

The flowers arrive an hour later like a declaration of war.

Two dozen black roses, their petals kissed with crimson edges like they’ve been dipped in blood. The card is simple.

Tonight. Le Bernardin. Eight o’clock sharp.

Wear something pretty…

unless you’d prefer I choose for you.

—S.O.

“Holy shit,” Gina whispers, running her fingers over the thorns. “These are Midnight Supreme roses. They only grow in some secret Japanese greenhouse. You literally can’t even buy them—they’re invitation only.”

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