Page 54 of Nemesis

“That will be up to her,” Vasiliy challenges, causing dear old dad’s earnest expression to board up.

“Obviously, it would be up to her.”

“Not obviously, asshole. Only a week ago, she was working long days on a painful injury and entertaining decrepit old fucks just to keep a crumbling roof over her head, all because you couldn’t locate your daughter wandering around a few states away. Now that she has me, she’ll be free to do whatever she wishes, including never dancing another day if she doesn’t want to.”

Vasiliy’s explosion takes me completely by surprise.

I guess I forgot I shared so much with him in the cell. Or maybe I thought he wasn’t really listening. I remember a lot of the stuff he told me, but that’s because he’s fascinating. The dichotomy of a scary mob interrogator and protector of his kid sister, crowded into one large body with pretty blue eyes? Come on, that’s objectively fascinating.

Then there’s the second part. Now that she has me. The sentiment splashes into my face with a fresh, cold shock.

“Um, what?” I ask, turning.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “I thought we’d agree we’d be feminists tomorrow?”

“Oh God,” I murmur to myself. “My emotional-support man is an idiot.”

“You are not going back to ballet if you don’t want to dance.”

“Vas, we’re practically strangers! You can’t just hand me money.”

Jesus, Octavia, if men want to hand over their money to you, let them. Seven days in a cage and you forget you’re below the poverty line?

My father clears his throat, interrupting.

“I truly hate to agree with this dumbass, but he’s right. If you don’t want to dance anymore, you do not need to,” he says from the chair beside us. “You don’t need to depend on him, either. Technically, you’ve had access to your trust since you turned eighteen. I haven’t touched it since the day I set it up.”

“Settle down,” I snap. “I don’t need handouts from you, either.”

“It’s not a handout. Every person who carries the Siderov name wears a target on their back, and unfortunately, you’ve already learned what that entails. As a Siderov, you have a heavier load to carry than most people do. The Trust Fund is already legally in your name, to ensure your relative safety and prosperity as best as we can.”

Top ten words I never thought I’d hear in the same sentence with Octavia: trust fund.

What. The. Fuck.

“In fact, I’m sure I can find you a life coach or a puppy to replace this foul boy, and you wouldn’t have to depend on him for anything, ever again,” my father continues, leaving me to process the fact that I technically had access to a Trust Fund the same year I spent secretly living in the ballet changing rooms and eating out of the trash.

All those nights I prayed that no one would open the door while I slept, before the janitor snuck me his key in a quiet act of kindness. Sure, I’ve done some shitty stuff, but there’s no way my karma’s that bad.

“I did not say she needed to depend on me, old man. I only meant that I’d be happy to provide for her if she wished to pursue other interests. And I will not be replaced by a mutt!”

“You are a mutt.”

“Enough!” My hands extend between the two dumbasses. “Vasiliy, go wait in the bathroom. I need to speak with my father alone.”

“But—” he stammers in a boyish tone.

“I’ll be fine,” I say a little softer. “Just give us a few minutes.”

With a huff, Vas slides out from behind me. He shoots my bio-dad one final glare before shuffling off to the bathroom door.

Atriumphant smile ghosts across my father’s lips at the sight of Vasiliy leaving, but it quickly dissipates when I angle my gaze back on him. Even his gloating grin reminds me of one I’ve worn countless times.

When I look away, a heavy sigh hisses through the air.

“This is uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

I glance down at my torn, black dress, stiff with dried blood and grime. “Sure is.”