Page 28 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

Nadia was so small, but her own mother forced her to lie. She was just terrified. Scared of losing her dad, scared of making Mom angry, scared this barely warm home would shatter again.

And my presence? A disaster for her.

She didn't understand she was collateral damage in a grown-up war. Victoria's weapon to drive me out.

Now she'd handed me the knife. And said sorry.

I gripped that thin piece of paper. I knew then—it was time to go.

For Nadia. For myself. Ivan had bought me, but I shouldn't be some decoration sitting in this house, waiting to be dusted off or thrown away.

Dawn was breaking. The hallway was silent, everyone still asleep.

I grabbed my suitcase and pushed open Ivan's study door.

Documents still spread across the desk. His pen lying there, cap off.

I placed Nadia's letter in the center of the desk, pressed the pen down on one corner so he'd see it the moment he walked in.

Then I stood there, staring at that chair. For a long time.

This was where he spent most of his days. Where I'd sat quietly in the corner countless times, reading, stealing glances at him.

I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle, forced back that wave of ache trying to rise. Turned. Walked out. Closed the door softly behind me.

On my way downstairs, I ran into Victoria.

She leaned against the banister in a silk robe, hair loosely pinned, still as flawless as the first time I'd seen her. But I could see through the polished surface now. See the ugliness underneath.

Victoria saw my suitcase. Her lips curled slowly. "Leaving?"

I lowered my head. Ignored her.

Victoria kept talking. "Ivan told me in bed last night—girls like you really think one good fuck makes you a trophy wife? Take a look at yourself. That poverty stench in your bones? You think you can wash that off?"

I gripped the suitcase handle tighter. My fingers went white.

They talked about me like that? In bed?

To them, my feelings for Ivan were nothing but cheap entertainment.

I took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in my throat. Didn't stop. Didn't look back. Walked past her, shoulder brushing her perfectly pressed silk dress. She clicked her tongue, stepped aside like I'd contaminated her.

I pulled open the heavy carved door. Walked out.

Las Vegas morning light hit my face. Gray-white, same as when I'd arrived. Low clouds wrapped the city in a thin layer of chill.

Wind swept in from the edge of the estate, made my eyes sting.

It was colder than the day I came.

I draggedmy suitcase to a stop at the Seventh Avenue exit of Penn Station.

The steps were wet. Just rained. The air hung thick, mixed with grease from the hot dog cart and damp steam rising from the sewers.

I stood under the awning, staring at the gray buildings across the street. For a second, it felt like I'd never left.

Before Gary's creditors grabbed me, I'd rented a tiny room in Brooklyn. Kitchen stove right next to the foot of the bed, half-dead pothos on the windowsill.