Page 78 of Baby for the Bratva King

But as I take in my surroundings, looking at the cameras, the people gathered around, I notice something terrible. Blood drains from my face. Suddenly, I’m the prey, not the predator, desperate to be forgiven for my sins as I become the family disappointment.

My breath turns thin as I lock eyes with the Grim Reaper, also known as my father.

20

SASKIA

“I… um,” I stutter in front of the journalist. “Do you mind if I run to the ladies room quickly?” I flash her a quick glare.

“Sure!” she says, drawing a line across her neck, signaling the team to stop recording.

I relax my shoulders a little, but the drama isn’t over just yet.

“Periods always come at the worst times,” says the journalist, trying to relate to me, make me feel more comfortable.

I wish my period was coming. Cramps would be a lot less painful.

“Y-yeah,” I stutter, offering the journalist a nervous smile before moving away.

Felix grabs my hand as the crowds begin dispersing, shooting me a look that translates to something like what’s wrong?

I slip out of the red room, scurrying down stone passageways, searching for the bathroom. I have no idea where the restrooms are, but I need air, and preferably some courage.

I locked eyes with my father and the past came flooding back in an instant. The pain. The anxiety. My heart sinks to my stomach the way it has done for years as another day draws to a close and I’m still no closer to being the person my father wants me to be.

A deep bass rumbles through the empty corridors as I head further away from the venue. The Ritz is a maze, and so is life in general. Is there ever a point in time when you feel like you’ve made it? You get close, but then life throws a curveball and sets you back.

I tuck myself into an alcove, catching my breath. Walking should not be exhausting, but it is when anxiety is clawing at my chest, my stomach, slowly attacking my whole anatomy.

I press my back up against stone. Violin Melodie’s swirl off into the distance, forming familiar melodies that sound a lot like The Land of the Free, which only makes me feel more shit.

There’s no way out.

The oppression I thought I danced off is back, haunting me once again. The prosecco on my tongue turns bitter, nausea rolling through me, and as I look out in front of me, I swear the walls have moved forward.

Everything feels confined. Oxygen is a luxury and I have to pay the tax. That’s how life feels around my father, like I owe him the air in my lungs. He raised me. He brought me into the world, along with my mother—who no longer exists. He was a single parent for years, and that makes me incredibly indebted to him.

My throat closes up, preventing the air from getting through. A tear rolls down my cheek, more following. I keel over, placing a hand on the wall as more tears fall, mixing with the fake blood to form a pinkish watery solution. It transfers onto the stone walls and I’m making a mess, but I can’t breathe. The horrible cramping sensation in my diaphragm is definitely worse than period pain. I claw at my chest, choking on tears, everything returning all at once, two years of hard work all wasted, because I’ll never be fucking free of this man.

Footsteps grow closer, evenly spaced, light.

I crash into the wall, despair eating me alive. I know these footsteps well, and they don’t belong to Felix.

The footsteps become louder, and then they reach an abrupt stop. I can feel my father’s eyes on me, but I stay glued to the wall. I would rather stall the inevitable and drag this out for as long as possible.

“Saskia.”

There it is—that cold, disappointing tone, responsible for making me feel like death.

I turn around. No fucking wonder I feel like killing myself when my father has come dressed as the grim reaper.

He’s wrapped up in black cloth, almost like he wrapped a bunch of bedsheets around him. Forget what the journalist said about my outfit—this is positively terrifying. His face is hidden somewhere underneath the black hood and mask, but I can see his eyes as clear as day. I only go cold like this for one person.

“Dear me, Saskia, how did you get yourself into this mess?”

My body falls silent, my pulse silent for a few beats. He sounds… concerned.

“Look at you,” says my father, sighing. He steps forward, removing the gold-plated mask, and I lose my footing when I see him in person after all these years.