Page 23 of Baby for the Bratva King

“Father is dead.”

“Yeah, to us. Not the world. He doesn’t know I strip, and I want it to stay that way.”

“Who gives a fuck? Be the family disappointment. Cause a storm. Write your own destiny and show father how bitter karma can taste.”

“I’m hardly writing my own destiny,” I cringe. “This money belongs to Felix. I belong to Felix.”

“Make this work for you. Felix needs you more than you think, so much that he caused a scene last night and gave the media something to talk about.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I mutter, staring at the shower. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yes,” says Fleur down the receiving end of the phone. “I’m on my way to grab your emergency contraception, by the way. Make sure you take it later. In the meantime, use a condom if you’re going to have sex again.”

“Okay, Mom.” I end the call, immediately cringing. That may have been too close to home.

I barely remember our mother. I was eight when she died, Fleur only six.

According to our father, she grew ill and died. Her death has always left a sour taste in my mouth, mainly because my father never spoke about her unless we asked about her.

There were never any photographs of them together, no wedding photos. I knew my mother for eight years, and I have not come across one picture of us together. Families are meant to take photos, to reminisce.

But my father has never been the sentimental type.

I spend the next half hour cleaning the very pristine bathroom, scrubbing the tiles, avoiding my reflection in the mirror at all costs before I pick apart my face and remind myself why I will never be good enough for Felix.

I remove the latex gloves, throw them in the trash and head back downstairs, which feels more like a hike.

I enter the kitchen, making myself a very well-needed coffee. I’m slowly getting the hang of this machine. Twist and turn the filter to secure. Steam the milk at an angle. I never worked as a barista. In fact, I was in the middle of applying for a job at the local coffee shop when I received Felix’s acceptance email.

Fleur and I would have killed for some free coffee, but now we might not have to worry about freebies.

I walk the coffee into the living room, zapping on the TV for a ten-minute break.

I sip hot coffee, watching the weather presenter deliver the forecast for this weekend. Cloudy with a fifty-percent chance of rain. That sounds about right.

The broadcast pans to Central Park. Fall is my favorite time of year. I love seeing the colors, watching the leaves change color. Burnt orange has always been my favorite.

The newscast ends, another one starting. I sip coffee, looking over the rim of the cup as the figure 2.3 million dollars flashes on screen.

“This is the amount of money that’s been raised so far for disadvantaged families. Vesper Brouwer is currently running his marathon now, still accepting donations.”

The broadcast switches to the live event, the coffee turning bitter on my tongue the moment I see my father, running over the Manhattan Bridge.

“It’s amazing what this city can achieve when we all come together,” he says, out of breath, sweat dripping down his forehead. His hairline looks terrible. With all that money, he should be able to afford a hair transplant.

2.3 million dollars seems like a lot on the surface of it, but there are hidden fees with every donation. My father takes home quite a cut, and he gets his pockets filled by the media from all the exposure.

“How is the wind holding up?” says the journalist, running alongside him with a microphone.

“You might be able to hear from the studio,” he jokes, taking a sip from his electrolyte drink, which, of course, is sponsored.

“It sounds like you’re running into a hurricane,” jokes one of the journalists.

“It certainly feels like it,” reports the journalist live on scene.

“The lemon crush electrolyte is keeping me going, now fifty percent off online,” he points out, facing the camera. “For all my marathon runners out there—head over to the website and get yours today, with over fifteen flavors to choose from. These little packets of joy are a real life saver.”

“The real life saver, ladies and gentleman, is Vesper Brouwer,” says the other journalist back in the studio, the live feed ending. “Thanks to Mr. Brouwer’s determination, families will be able to enjoy a plentiful thanksgiving this year.”