Page 49 of Unrequited
There’s a smirk tugging at my lips. I can’t help it. It’s the only armor I have left.
Rafail groans, clearly exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, Zoya. No. Not a player. He was… wild. Known for it. But that’s not who he is anymore. He’ll be loyal. He’ll be good to you.”
“And exceptionally wealthy,” I mutter dryly, rolling my eyes. “As if I care about that.”
He glances sideways at me, something unreadable behind his eyes. “I expected you to be more emotional about this.”
I shrug. “I expected me to be more emotional too. But why? I knew it was going to happen eventually.”
What I don’t say out loud is that if I can’t have the one man I want, what good is there in hoping for anything else?
I swallow the lump in my throat and look away.
“You said he’ll be good to me,” I murmur. “He’ll take care of me?”
“Yes. He will.”
“When do I meet him?”
“Tomorrow,” Rafail says. “I’ve invited him for dinner.”
I sigh, trying to brace myself. “Great. If that’s what you want, Rafail.”
After all the lies I’ve told, after all the ways I’ve betrayed them, this is the one thing I can do. The one thing I can give back. A shred of loyalty to pay for all the secrets I’ve buried.
Seamus isn’t coming back.
And I don’t want another man.
“It’s more than just what I want,” Rafail says, his voice turning heavier. “If you’re with him, Zoya, we gain protection. Power. Our family’s standing with the Morozovs solidifies. No one questions us. No one moves against us.” He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s mutually beneficial on every level. Financial, political, strategic. Every one of us has madesacrifices.”
I nod, resolute. “All right. I’ll do what you say. I’ll come up with something good to cook.”
Rafail leans in, presses a kiss to my cheek, and wraps me in a rare hug—tight, grounding. “No, I’ll have it catered this time. You are so good to our family,” he whispers. “So loyal. So brave.”
Am I?I think.Am I really?
I sigh and nod. “I try.”
“I was afraid you’d fight me on this,” he admits. “Afraid I’d have to make you.”
“Make me?” I ask, lifting a brow.
He shrugs. “I’m just… relieved. It’s best you make a good appearance,” he adds. “Do you want to go, I don’t know… shopping? Haircut? New dress?”
I shrug. “Does it really matter?”
Can you cover up the face of heartbreak?
He gives me a sheepish look and shrugs again. “Honestly? Yeah. It does. We want to make a good impression.”
I nod. Because that’s what this is. A performance. A sacrifice. A war disguised as a wedding.
AndI’mthe weapon.
“You think this will be a good match?” I say, unable to hide the snideness threading through my words. There’s no point pretending anymore, not with him. I don’t know if anyone else has figured it out, but he should know. This is how it works.He knows.
“I do,” he says.
