Page 33 of Deceptive Vows

Not only that, I’m worried about him, too.

He’s like family to me, and I have to face the very real possibility that this disaster could take him away from me.

I slide off the bed and make my way into the walk-in wardrobe. Yesterday, one section was cleared for me to put my things in.

The other section—basically the other half of the room—holds Mikhail’s clothes.

I dare not look at his things. I thought of looking around to see if I could gather more than the bare minimum of information I have on him. But I thought better of it.

I realized he wouldn’t have anything like that lying around. So, I know nothing more than what I’ve seen and heard.

I’m supposed to marry this man next week, yet I hardly know anything about him.

I don’t even know how old Mikhail is. His ruggedness makes him look older like a man’s man, but that beauty in his features suggests he’s in his mid- to late twenties.

Yesterday I spent most of the day putting away my commandeered clothes. What I’m after now is the only thing that belongs to me. It’s a little shoebox I managed to take care of over the years.

Inside the box are my trinkets. I’ve hidden it under some jumpers I placed on the bottom shelf. There’s nothing much inside to give me away, but I’m keeping it there for the simple reason that I don’t want anything to happen to it.

I don’t want the last few precious memories of my parents tarnished.

I sink to the floor and press my back against the wall before I open it, reaching for the one thing that will soothe me.

It’s a picture of my parents and me when I was ten. We’re in San Francisco at the beach, and we’re happy.

Mom’s blonde hair is sparkling against the sun, and her bright blue eyes are beaming. My father has a protective arm around us, and he looks proud.

It’s a happy picture, of happier times, and a great memory. But it makes me sad because none of these people exist anymore.

Not even me.

I can’t be the girl from this picture anymore, or I’m dead.

I must sit there for over an hour staring at the picture and trying to recapture my calm by looking at the trinkets in my box. I lose track of time and only regain my awareness when there’s a hurried knock on the bedroom door.

Quickly, I put the box away, grab my robe, and rush out.

I don’t know who that is, but I’m guessing it’s not Mikhail. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to knock, and why would he on his own bedroom door?

The knock sounds again just as I open the door.

It’s Aleksander, and he has the same tightlipped, displeased expression on his face he wore yesterday.

“Good morning,” I greet him.

“MissAlvarez, breakfast will be served in ten minutes,” he replies, not even bothering to return the pleasantry, or even offer up some fake warmth. “I suggest you get ready and make your way downstairs. Mr. Dmitriyev doesnotlike to be kept waiting. Breakfast is served at eight because he has to leave at eight thirty sharp.”

“Okay. I—”

He doesn’t wait for me to finish. He just marches off, automatically dismissing anything more I have to say.

What a prick.

He’s just as abrasive as Mikhail.

I groan inwardly and backtrack into the room before I close the door.

I guess ifMr. Dmitriyevdoesn’t like to be kept waiting, it means Mr. Dmitriyev is sitting at the table. Waiting. Mikhail is here. I’m going to have to face him.