“We wanted to find you and scan the chip, that was all,” he protested. “We tried to find you at the fundraiser but we didn’t get there in time.”
“So, you’ve been tracking me since I left Moscow,” I say numbly.
“Since he kidnapped you from your own wedding, cousin!”
Pinching the bridge of my nose against an oncoming headache, I wish I’d never picked up. “What exactly do you need from my chip, Artim Ivanov?”
“Your father inserted the bank codes for his offshore interests in your chip,” he says, sounding troublingly sincere. “It’s the last place anyone would think to look for them.”
I chuckle mirthlessly, “Because who would trust a mere woman with anything sensitive, correct?”
“It will take me five seconds to scan your chip and download the codes,” he says wearily. “After that, you can deactivate or remove the chip. We will not contact you again, if that’s your wish. But your father gives his word that he will set up a bank account that only you can access. You’ll have a… what do they call it? A nest egg if you need it. You can disappear.”
“Why should I trust anything you say?” I demand, my throat’s closing up, and the chills are back.
There’s a short silence, and Artim says, “Marriage records, whether civil or religious are listed in the city records in Edinburgh. You can look them up online. You’ve been ‘married’ for over two weeks. Go look for yourself.”
I hate the way he mockingly saysmarried. I hate that part of me still wonders if it’s all part of Cameron’s plan. I especially hate that I am going to look it up the moment I’m off this call.
“Search the records, cousin,” he says, with a tone that almost sounds like pity. I want to reach through the phone and claw his vocal cords out for having the nerve to sound that way. “I will call you tonight at 7pm, Morana Ivanova. This is your chance as well as ours.”
Staring at the silent phone in my hand, I feel all the shame of my childhood rising up again. The misfortune I was told that I brought to my family. That I was an ill wind. I don’t owe those bastards anything. I don’t.
The hallway is quiet in the main part of the house, I hear Miss Kevin’s gentle voice instructing one of the maids in the library. My phone doesn’t have internet access, but I know where to find it. The butler’s office is next to the kitchen, a tidy little space where I’ve shared tea with Miss Kevin once or twice. I know that she always keeps her phone on her, but her laptop is usually open.
My shaking fingers make it hard to type quickly and I keep glancing up at the doorway. Edinburgh's online records are surprisingly organized, and it takes just a few keystrokes to look for our names.
They’re not in the marriage records.
I check a couple of other places in the files. Cormac and Mala’s marriage is proudly recorded, nothing for Cameron and me. I type our names into the search bar just to see if anything comes up, and there’s one short blurb from a local gossip site mentioning we were seen together at the Gala. Nothing about us being married.
But his mother… She invited us to dinner? She told me that I’d be meeting the rest of the family. Was her visit just part of his game to sell the story?
Hearing soft footsteps, I hastily exit out of the site and escape Miss Kevin’s office just in time.
“Hello, Madame MacTavish, can I get you anything?”
She always smiles so kindly at me. Is that part of the game too, just to keep me complacent?
“Are you all right?” Her head’s cocked, looking at me quizzically and I realize I’m standing in front of the open freezer door.
“Oh… I’m sorry, I was just looking for… Ice cream.” I grab the closest pint and hold it up. “I’ll get a spoon and eat it out on the deck.”
There’s a fierce wind blowing outside today, but she nods politely, heading down the little hall to her office.
Cameron is still out on whatever business he has tonight of making deals or breaking legs, as I sit on my bed, staring at my phone. When it rings right at 7pm, I want to throw it out the window. Answering it will prove that Artim is right.
“Privet,Artim Ivanov.”
“Privet,hello, Morana Ivanova.” He sounds tired, like he hasn’t slept in days.
Good.
“MacTavish is taking you to an event tomorrow night, as I’m sure he’s told you.” There’s his old malice coming back.
“Go on,” I say, rubbing my eyes, which are suspiciously damp.
“It’s the opening night of their newest club. He will keep you in the VIP section, of course. There is a private bathroom on that level. Meet me there at 10pm exactly.”
