Page 72 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Second door on the left,” Gavril calls from behind me.

I’m glad he’s back in the room so he can’t see my sheepish smile as I walk that way and enter the quartz-stone room. It wasn’t a complete lie. I do have to go to the bathroom.

But after doing my business, I turn to the mirror for the real reason I’m here: space to think and, hopefully, talk some sense into myself.

Like, first off, figuring out what the hell I’m playing at, entertaining these idiotic thoughts. Chatting with Gavril as if he’s anything more than an attractive boss, as if he actually cares, as if this is actually real.

“Because it’s not.” I glare venom at my reflection, all flushed and beaming stupidly. “Just remember that—it’s not real at all.”

Maybe his laugh sounds real and his smile looks real and even the shine in his goddamn eyes looks real, but at the end of the day, Mr. Gavril Vaknin is paying me to be his fake wife. End of story.

This is just a job. Nothing more.

On my way back to the dining room, I hear his voice, light and teasing, “Not trying to run away already, are you?”

I pause in the doorway, half smiling. “And if I am?”

He smirks back, rising. “Then I’d tell you that I have something to show you first.” He strides forward, taking me by the arm easily. His hold is steady, strong, and my body registers it by doing that stupid buzzy thing that makes me want to literally smack some sense into it.

Before I know it, Gavril is opening a door and we’re there. What does he want to show me?

It’s not the cool breeze ruffling my hair and licking my neck. Not even the expanse of sycamores I hadn’t noticed in what must be Gavril’s backyard. It’s what’s beyond it, sparkling: the symphony of city lights on the horizon, reaching towards the stars above. A wide-spanning cluster of human accomplishment rising up towards the sky.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. Which is trite and silly and doesn’t at all do justice to what I’m seeing now, but it’s also true.

More than that, though, I’m starting to understand just what being rich actually entails. It’s not just some brag-worthy status or getting access to ugly, overpriced purses or faster airport lines. It means getting access to the best life has to offer—homes, experiences, sights like these.

The old Joy Smith would’ve never gotten to see the city, not like this. Her view was always in the midst of the city madness, her neck craning up to look at all the tall buildings glaring back down. Now I’m the one looking at the world spread out before my feet, falling in love with what I’m seeing.

It feels so comfortable, so right, that it takes me a while to notice—I don’t know exactly how long—that I’m leaning back into Gavril, his arms wrapped around me.

“Joy.” His breath heats the side of my neck.

“Yeah?”

“I have something for you.” His arms release me and my body registers a loss somewhere.

I hear him his clothes rustle and then—oh my God. The moonlight glints off the diamond as he opens the vermillion-colored felt box in his palm. My mouth drops.

I’m not a ring girl, never have been—they’re so small and tiny and hardly noticeable and who has time to buy decent rings anyway?—but dammit, if the beauty in front of me isn’t enough to make me a believer.

“A fake,” he says, “Of course.”

Liar, I don’t say. I’m no ring expert, but I’m no ring idiot either. Just one look at it and it’s obvious: the intricate twining silver, the rubies haloing the diamonds. There’s no ‘fake’ in the world that is this spectacular.

Already, he’s sliding it on my ring finger, saying, “Perfect fit.” I can hear his breathing. Music, too.

It’s a Michael Bublé song I can’t remember the name of. Point is, it’s slow, and he’s eyeing me in a way I know is important to say no to.

But suddenly, his hand is out, and the wine spurs me to take it. When my mouth opens, a last-ditch effort to stop this, to say,No, thank you, I think I’m tired, when really, the truth is that I’m scared, his other hand takes my shoulder and we’re sailing away.

Only then do I understand: it was too late the second I sat down at that table.

We glide down the balcony. Not easily, but not terribly either. Gavril’s guiding me so flawlessly, his teaching remarks so natural (“left, back, there you go,” “just like that,”), I almost don’t notice how right it feels letting him lead me.

He dances us all the way to the edge of the balcony, then all the way back, back into the dining room, which smells like fresh air we left behind, past the newly cleared table. By now, the music is building in me, and I know then that I’m being doubly led, by Gavril and the music alike. The farther I go, the less sure I am that I’ll be able to resist when I need to.

Already, we’re out of the dining room. Down the hallway with the pictures looking on. My heart only remembers to beat when we’re in another bedroom and his lips hit mine.

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