Page 2 of His Forced Bride
Or when I impulsively decided to open my own studio and create my own clothing line.
"Your father wouldn't have agreed to this if he didn't believe it was the right move," she says in a gentle tone.
"The Mirova name means fashion and elegance throughout Europe thanks to you. The Gravitch name means protection and power. Together, you'll be untouchable."
I want to believe her and trust that Batya's calculations are correct, that Dominic Gravitch will be a partner rather than a master, that my company will flourish under the umbrella of his family's influence.
But doubt gnaws at me with a persistent ache that no amount of rational thinking can cure.
The phone in my clutch buzzes, and I have to step down from the pedestal and walk to my drafting table where I stashed the clutch when I walked in this morning.
I reach for it, hoping to see Batya's name on the screen.
We'd planned to go over the final details tonight, review the contracts one more time, ensure that every clause protects my interests as well as the family's.
The caller ID shows his number, and relief floods through me.
"Batya," I answer, pressing the device to my ear.
"I was beginning to worry. Are you on your way?"
The line crackles with static, then goes dead.
I pull the phone away, staring at the screen that now showsCall Failed.
I sigh and scowl at the phone.
We don’t have horrible service, but sometimes, calls drop.
"Everything okay?" Alina asks, watching my face in the mirror.
"The call dropped."
I dial his number, listening to the ringing that goes on for too long.
"He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago," I say out of the corner of my mouth while pressing the phone to my ear.
It isn’t like my father to be running late, but we all have a lot of preparations to finish before the ceremony tomorrow.
At times I wish my mother were here.
I know she and Batya don't get along well and that she lives her life at a distance for a reason, but every woman wants her mother to be a part of her wedding day, even the ones with broken relationships.
Through the windows that face the street, I catch sight of movement that doesn't belong to the usual evening foot traffic.
A black SUV cruises slowly past the showroom, its tinted windows reflecting the streetlights.
I watch it for a second, and Alina seems to notice too.
The way it moves is too slow, like the driver is studying the building.
It makes me want to step away from the windows.
I know the world I live in, and it's not always a calm or quiet place.
"What is it?" Alina says, walking closer to me.
Another SUV follows thirty seconds later, then a third.
