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“It will be transferred according to the secondary provisions of the trust.”
“Which means?”
“It doesn't go to the sisters who comply,” Viktor says carefully. “Your father anticipated that possibility.”
Of course he did.
“Who gets it?”
“I'll explain the trust structure in detail shortly. The important point is that none of you can circumvent the condition by refusing and subsequently receiving the assets from one another.”
“Who are they?” Milana asks quietly.
Nobody moves. Viktor looks down at the paper. My stomach tightens. It's ridiculous. It's a will. A piece of paper. Papa can't physically drag any of us down an aisle.
He can't force us to marry anyone. We can walk away. All five of us. We could leave every cent behind and live perfectly comfortable lives with what we already have.
Except this isn't only money.
It's Papa's houses. Mama's jewelry. Businesses our family has owned for decades. Land. Investments. The organization itself. Our name. Everything he spent his life building. And the manipulative old bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
“Read them,” Zhenya says.
Viktor looks at me first.
“Fine,” I say. “Let's hear it.”
Viktor picks up the document. “Your father's instructions regarding his eldest daughter are as follows.”
I fold my arms. My heart is beating harder than it should. This is absurd. Whoever Papa chose, the answer is no.
Obviously.
Thirty days or thirty years, I am not marrying some random man because my dead father decided to play matchmaker from beyond the grave.
Viktor continues.
“Arina Yaroslavovna Maximova is to marry...”
He pauses. Why the fuck is he pausing?
“Viktor—!”
His eyes meet mine over the top of the paper.
Then he says the name.
“Garick Lazovski.”
Everything inside me stops, and suddenly I understand why he'd been looking at me like that.
The bastard knew.
Garick
I watch the car until it turns out of the cemetery. Then I keep watching the empty road, because she's gone and I haven't worked out what to do with myself yet.
Behind me, the cemetery is emptying slowly, with a lot of men pretending they weren't watching. They gather in twos and threes near the gates, lighting cigarettes, shaking hands, lowering their voices. Oleg Rusakov laughs at something and catches himself halfway through, glancing around to see who noticed.
