It's my father.
I close my eyes for a second before I call him back. My dad is the best man I know. Warm, steady, honest in a world that doesn't reward honesty. He has no idea what I've been carrying. He thinks I work at the restaurant because I like it. He thinks I’m trying to stand on my own two feet and build character while I’m trying to figure myself out.
I can never tell him the truth. It would shatter him.
"Sweetheart." His voice is warm, like it always is. "How's work?"
"Good. Busy. What's up, Dad?"
"I need to talk to you about something. I wanted to check what time you’d be done at work."
Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine. Better than fine, actually. There's been an arrangement."
The word hits me like cold water. "What kind of arrangement?"
"A marriage, Nadia. A very good match. The Orlov family."
I lean against the bathroom wall. The fluorescent light buzzes above me like a trapped insect.
"Orlov," I repeat.
"Rafferty Orlov. The youngest son. It's a strong alliance and the family is well respected. Saoirse Orlov is a wonderful woman. I've spoken with Liam, the eldest of the brothers, and I feel very good about this."
My father sounds happy. Genuinely happy. Like he's giving me a gift.
I press my hand flat against the wall and try to think. Marriage means a husband. A husband means shared finances. Shared finances mean I can't funnel every spare cent to Kyle without someone noticing. Without someone asking questions I can't answer.
"Nadia? Are you there?"
I take a deep breath. The nausea is back. "I'm here,” I squeak. “When?"
"Two weeks."
I can’t say anything, two weeks is nothing, no time at all. What the hell am I supposed to do to fix this in two weeks if I haven’t been able to fix it in three years?
"I know it's fast, sweetheart. But I've met Liam and I trust him. This is a good family. You'll meet Rafferty this week."
I want to scream. I want to tell him I can't do this. I want to explain that there is a man out there with photographs of his daughter that would burn our family's reputation to ash, and marriage will make it impossible to keep paying for his silence.
Instead, I say, "Okay, Dad."
"Okay?"
"If you think it's right, I trust you." I close my eyes together tight to try and get the room to stop spinning, even if just for a second.
He exhales. Relief. Love. The uncomplicated warmth of a father who thinks his daughter is fine.
"You'll like him," he says. "I have a good feeling about this."
We hang up and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the bathroom floor. The tile is cold. The light is still buzzing. My phone sits in my hand like a grenade with the pin half pulled.
Two weeks. A husband. A marriage I can't refuse without explaining why, and an explanation I can never give.
I think about Kyle's message. Five thousand by tonight. Bitter bile races up my throat and I lift the toilet lid in time to expel it into the basin.
Then I pull myself off the floor, wash my hands, rinse my mouth, fix my face in the mirror, and go back to work.
