Page 103 of Wicked Proposal
I toss in bed and force myself to close my eyes. My heart was never on the table. I’m not in love with Yulian Lozhkin—I’m inlust.Dark, bottomless lust, but lust nonetheless.
Love has nothing to do with it.
Love is for schoolgirls without cigarette burns on their arms.
On the third day, I’m fresh out of hope. I take Eli to school, kiss him on the head, watch him trot to his new friends, and then break down crying in my car.
I fucked it up. The job, Yulian, everything. It was my son’s only hope, and I fucked it up.
Why can’t I stop ruining everything?
At home, I’m getting ready to call the bank and beg when Boris knocks on my door.
“A delivery,” he announces in his deep, accented baritone. “From the boss.”
I toss the box on the ground and throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you,” I hiccup.
Boris freezes. He pats my head awkwardly, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with an armful of tiny, crying woman. “You’re… welcome, Miss.”
Once I’m alone again, I rip open the package. Inside is another dress—and another note.
Saturday. 7 P.M. Don’t be late.
I laugh through the tears. It’s a little burst, hysterical and just a bit mad, but God, the relief is overwhelming.
I’m not fired.
I’m not done.
I can still care for my kid.
With that, all my qualms about Yulian melt like fresh snow.
He was a dick. So what? What if he used my body, stomped on my heart, and ghosted me back just to scare me? Just because he could?
It doesn’t matter.
None of it matters.
Only Eli matters.
When he was born, I swore to myself I’d do anything for him. Anything to give him the life he deserved. So, if I have to put on a pretty dress and dance for the devil?
Cue the fucking music.
“Mia! We’ve got another code red coming through!”
I rush to the E.R. doors and flank the stretcher rushing in. “Male, thirty-two,” the EMT rattles off. “Another victim of the pile-up on I-278. Fell off his motorcycle and flew into the bushes. Wasn’t found until he woke up and started screaming.”
“I WANT TO SEE MY WIFE!” the patient yells, thrashing on the stretcher.
“Sir, calm down,” a fledgling nurse at my side urges. “We’re going to take care?—”
“TAKE ME TO MY WIFE!”
“Pushing 1 mcg lorazepam,” I say as I hook him up to an IV.
The new nurse frowns. “You can’t prescribe?—”
