This ugly house was once refined and classy. But he took down much that she put up to wipe her memory. I don’t know why he kept the few things he did, but I’m grateful for the reminders of her.
The sound of the food dispenser, and Vova’s greedy response mark my cue to leave. I set his dinner timer at our dinner time.
I glance in my mirror on the way out of my room to ensure my makeup is pristine and my dress spotless. Viktor has strict rules on my appearance. Pastels and perfection.
The Bratva Princess must always look the part. She must be sweet and kind. She must hold her tongue. She is to be seen and not heard. She must always be presentable. She will wear light pink makeup and pastel dresses. She must never be seen as negative. She must be weak. And meek. And pathetic.
She must be a lie.
I hate her.
I hate the Bratva Princess, and all that she stands for.
I hate being the Bratva Princess.
But he’s beaten her into me. All that I am is the Bratva Princess.
Katerina Sokolov doesn’t exist anymore, if she ever even did. All I know is the girl Viktor made me to be. And I want her dead almost as much as I want him dead.
I enter the dining room and sit to his left. The seat to his right always remains empty in honor of ????. It infuriates me. How dare he honor the woman he led to deaths door! The woman he broke. The one he killed.
I wonder if he’d honor me if I left just as she did.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll never let him win. I will defeat him one day.
I look at Viktor as I sit and shoot him a saccharine smile. The fake love and sweetness from his perfect daughter enrage me, but I know the consequences of dropping the mask.
Yelena comes in with plates of zharkoye iz dichi for dinner. Even after years of eating the roast game, it still unsettles me. It’s too ostentatious of a dinner, too pretentious. He feasts like a god when he’s really a demon. It disgusts me.
We eat in silence, as we do most nights. The sounds of forks scraping the plate are music to my ears as opposed to the alternative of speaking to the demon king. But good things can only last so long.
“Katyusha, what have you done today?” Viktor muses.
I go rigid. Fuck him for calling me that. My mother called me Katyusha, and that’s the only reason he does. He only started calling me it once she passed, and only when he’s trying to start a fight.
But I won’t show a reaction. The last set of bruises only just healed, and I won’t give him a reason to give me more.
The question itself is also set to piss me off. There’s nothing for me to do in this godforsaken prison. He keeps me locked up, and recently, he’s banned me from leaving. I used to be able to get fresh air, but that’s no longer an option.
I know something’s going on with his Bratva. He’s been even angrier recently. More stressed, on edge. And he takes it out on me.
“I’ve been working on a paper for class,” I say as briefly as possible. When his eyes narrow, I relax my posture and soften my tone. “Thank you, ????, for letting me get my masters. I appreciate it.”
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they appease him. After a few more minutes, he continues.
“Sergey will be joining us for dinner tomorrow. Be presentable.” His demand comes with an evil grin.
I feel nauseous at the mention of Sergey.
Viktor has been hinting at a marriage between Sergey and me for a while now. I was given until I finished college to marry. I had hoped getting my master’s degree would prolong my time. At twenty-three, the idea of marriage disgusts me. But the idea of marrying Sergey is even worse. It’s inconceivable.
Sergey is in his forties, and he’s already had two wives. Both havedisappeared. But he’s close to Viktor and currently single, so I don’t think Viktor cares. All Viktor cares about is keeping his men happy. Not about the wellbeing and safety of his only daughter.
But why would he? He doesn’t care about my wellbeing or safety. For fuck’s sake, he beats me weekly.
“Thank you for informing me, ????. I will be well-dressed.” I hesitate a moment, gaging his response. When he continues eating, I push my meal away and ask, “May I be excused, ?????”
I know better than to just leave. A good daughter always asks for permission.
