The color drains from Sophia’s face again. “No. My father wouldn’t—he couldn’t?—”
“He did.” I pull out my phone again and show her a different photo. This one is of Nicole, smiling at the camera. She’s wearing her school uniform, her blonde hair in a ponytail. She looks so young. So innocent.
“She was going to be a doctor.” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “She was smart, kind, everything good in this world. And your father destroyed her.”
Sophia stares at the photo, and I see something shift in her expression. Not quite belief, but the beginning of understanding.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry for what happened to your sister. But I didn’t do that. I didn’t even know?—”
“You’re his legacy,” I interrupt. “His blood. His responsibility. And now you’re going to pay for what he did. Every. Single. Day.”
I grab her arm again and pull her toward the chapel doors. My men fall into step behind us.
“Where are we going?” she asks, but the fight has gone out of her voice.
“Home,” I say. “To our home. Where you’ll learn what it means to be Mrs. Artyomov.”
3
SOPHIA
The mansion looms before me like something out of a gothic nightmare, all stone and iron, with windows that look like dead eyes staring into the darkness.
Mikhail’s hand grips my upper arm as he drags me through the massive front doors, and I stumble on the marble floor, my sneakers squeaking against the polished surface.
“Let go of me,” I hiss, trying to wrench free. My wrist still aches from the zip ties, and my shoulder throbs where it hit the SUV’s interior.
He doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t even look at me.
He just pulls me through a grand foyer that probably costs more than my entire college education, past oil paintings of stern-faced men who look like they’ve never smiled in their lives, and up a sweeping staircase that belongs in a museum.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
Where is he taking me?
What is he going to do?
The hallway on the second floor stretches endlessly, lined with closed doors that could hide anything.
Mikhail stops at the last door on the right and throws it open, shoving me inside.
I stumble into the room and spin around, ready to fight, ready to run, but the door slams shut behind him with a finality that makes my stomach drop.
The master bedroom. Of course.
It’s enormous, dominated by a king-sized bed with dark gray sheets that look like they cost more than my car.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook manicured gardens lit by security lights.
A fireplace crackles in the corner, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Everything screams wealth and power and danger.
“Please.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again?—”
“Shut up.” Mikhail’s voice cuts through my pleading like a blade.
