Blyad.
I head outside, breathing in fresh air to get rid of her floral scent. It was bad enough the night of the wedding, when I slept with her lingering smell on my bed sheets. If I thought stroking my cock and picturing her naked, chained to my bed would eradicate this unwanted desire, I was badly mistaken.
Because right now, my dick’s harder than prison time.
I wonder if she knows how much she’s fucking with my head.
Chapter Seven
Lauren
I balance hot coffee and a croissant in my hands as I walk to the office.
Watson & Co. Investments is a prestigious investment firm that has newly-furnished office spaces, an unlimited supply of San Pellegrino, and all the perks one can wish for. We even have a breakout area with bean bags, hammocks, a pool table, and a high-tech vending machine that can make you a foamy cappuccino in case you want to make your post-lunch brain fog go away.
I land at my desk and take a bite of the croissant, washing it down with the flat white I got from Starbucks earlier. As Vice President of Portfolio Strategy, my job is to deal with high-net-worth clients, long-term investments, and things that require a brain cell or two. I’ve been dabbling in and out of my father’s accounts for years, but he officially hired me at the company after Mom’s death, probably to take my mind off the grief.
Not like that’s working. Grief doesn’t go away with time. We just get used to living with it.
But at least I have a purpose working here, even though it was always my father’s dream to employ me—not my own. Frankly, I don’t know what other career path I would’ve taken if it wasn’t for finance.
Math was always my best subject in school, and this line of business is all I’ve ever known. It’s not shabby, and I wouldn’t be able to afford a penthouse apartment in Tuxedo Park without the money I make here, but there are times when I question the legitimacy of what my father has built. Like when he shows up toBratva functions and shakes hands with Russian crime lords and their enforcers…
I finish my coffee in the break room after checking this morning’s emails, sipping intermittently as I leaf through a copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
As good as this job is, I can’t progress higher than VP unless my father dies, and I don’t want to think about that, even though I currently dislike the man.
There’s no beating Charles Watson.
I’ll never outrun his shadow.
Dropping the newspaper on the table, I reach for my phone and scroll through the notifications. A text from Sophia, following up on our conversation last night.
“Don’t worry, Lau. I’m fine, really. Timur is a good husband.”
Fine.
That isn’t exactly the word I want to hear from someone who just got married. “Over the moon” or “madly in love” would be more like it. But they’ve only been married two weeks. It’s only going to be a matter of time before Timur Gusev’s true colors show.
I heave a sigh as I think about my bestie. Sophia always had an eye for pretty things. She used to collect flowers from the field during recess at school and arrange them into vases when she got home. She’s good with makeup and knows exactly what colors go with what. She can walk into any room and instantly know how to rearrange it to look better. I still remember the day she helped me pick out my dress for school prom, knowing exactly what style looked good for my body type.
She’s good with aesthetics.
What she’s not good with is blood.
One time, she cut her finger on a rose thorn when she was trying to pluck a flower, and almost fainted at the sight of thebleeding wound. Another time, she had to leave biology class when we dissected frogs, turning green the moment she saw the first incision.
She’s the polar opposite of her new husband.
I hate to think about how she’s going to react when Timur returns home from work with blood smeared all over his hands.
I go to her text and type out a response.
“Remember, you’re welcome to take whatever you want from my trust fund. I haven’t touched a cent of it. You can go crazy. Treat yourself to those Miu Miu leather ballet flats we saw in the store window. Go back to Greece. I’m serious.”
It’s tempting to tell her that Timur killed my mother, but I don’t want to freak her out too much. At least that’s what my father said—that Timur is responsible. Even though Nikolai Rogov says otherwise.
Sure, my father is a little sketchy, but he’s my dad and I’ve known him all my life. As for Nikolai, I only met him twice and I don’t trust him. Crime lords don’t earn their positions by being honest. Not to mention that the man chained me to his bed for over two hours. He’s given me multiple reasons not to trust him.
