Page 67 of His Darkest Obsession

“Good,” I say. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”

23

INDIGO

The hatredin Valentina’s gray eyes do not dissipate. She looks at me with a sharpness that makes me feel like I'm naked in front of her even underneath Anatoly’s heavy jacket. Without thinking, my hand moves to pull the jacket closer around.

"Now," she says once my back is to the corner and I'm flanked by two cold unfeeling walls, "tell me why my son is marrying you."

"He chose me." The only thing I can offer her is the truth.

The simplest truth rather than the whole truth. But still the truth.

"Do you take me to be a fool?" Her eyes rake over my blue hair with undisguised contempt and lingers on my skin. "Trash like you don't belong with my son. Now tell me the truth. Why is he marrying you?"

The truth? She wants the truth? Does she want me to admit to her that I'm marrying her son because he forced me to? Or does she want me to tell her what shewantsto hear—that I'm just another gold-digging whore who caught her son's attention.

"I am telling you the truth, Valentina Ivanovna," I say, recalling the way Svetlana combined my name with my father's, and remembering the way Anatoly addressed her earlier. "Your son chose me for a reason. I'm sorry he didn't share that reason with you."

If using her name in that way is supposed to make her hate me a little bit less, then it's backfired. Valentina's eyes narrow further and she takes a step towards me.

"Don't youeverlet my name touch your disgusting lips again." She stabs my chest with a claw-like finger. "You filthy whore."

I want to keep backing away, but there's nowhere left to go. My chest rises and falls, and the tip of her finger starts to dig through the fabric of Anatoly’s suit jacket and into my skin.

In a moment of desperation, I try to glance past her shoulder, but she notices and grabs my chin between her fingers to force my gaze back to her.

"Ponimayesh menya, suka?" Nails dig into my face as she snarls.

Again, I don't need to understand those words to understand their meaning and her hatred.

I nod, and she lets a look of satisfaction cross her face briefly as she digs her nails deeper. Pain sends unwilling tears up in my eyes, but I don't dare make a sound.

“Take off that jacket, whore,” she commands. “I want to see just what my son is so intent on hiding from me.”

My mouth goes dry and my hands remain clasped around the lapel of the jacket. I don’t want to take it off. I don’t want her to see the mutilated dress that I’m wearing. What had been an act of defiance has now become a mistake that I’m starting to regret.

“Now,” she hisses.

Then, as if to reinforce her message, her grip tightens.

The sharp tips of her nails are digging into my cheeks, and I can't stop the whimper of pain that escapes my throat.

Slowly, I reach up with trembling fingers, undo the protective armor that is Anatoly’s jacket, and let it fall from my shoulders. Cold air wraps around my exposed skin, and I see the disbelief and anger building up more and more in Valentina’s eyes as she takes in my appearance. Her grip tightens, and I’m afraid that she’s about to break skin.

“Where are you from?” she asks quietly.

A wave of nausea churns in my belly. And suddenly, I feel like I’m back at that Columbia academic committee hearing after that awful summer, when they demanded to know why my academic performance suffered without ever giving me a reason to truly defend myself about what had happened.

And like that committee, Valentina already made up her mind about who and what I am. All that’s happening now is a ritual in humiliation.

“The Bronx,” I answer truthfully.

She makes a face like I might as well have spat on her shoes.

“And what was the price for you to spread your legs for him, little whore from the Bronx?”

I want to scream at her that I haven’t doneanythingto her precious son. That it’shimwho has been doing everything to me. That all I want is to go home and resume my life as just another faceless ordinary person.