Page 64 of Twisted Proposal

It burned hot, and my father and other brother would lash out with a violence that scared most people.

They weren't the scary ones, though.

They were predictable in their anger, their rage.

Dima and I were different.

We had that same rage.

We just knew how to control it.

How to funnel that energy into something more productive.

For Dima, it meant holding on to anger until its use was strategically beneficial, whether that meant letting it explode in violence or fuel a revenge tactic, depending on the situation.

For me, it meant spite.

I was going to pass this class.

I was going to make it absolutely impossible for this son of a bitch to fail me.

Every single night would be spent reading over all the materials, going over lectures even if I had to do it all myself until my new study group met.

I was going to do it all, and I was going to do it on my own because fuck this professor.

Fuck him for underestimating me and thinking that I was less worthy because I came from an immigrant family, because I had a community college education, or because he couldn't figure out how to pronounce my name.

And fuck Artem for distracting me into forgetting why I was here.

I was going to get this degree, even if I had to live in his gilded cage with his cameras while I did it.

He wanted to watch me? Fine.

He could watch me study into the early hours of every morning, and he could watch me win where he tried to make me fail.

"Ms. Zatasevo, if you ever come into my class unprepared again, I will have you removed."

"It won't happen again," I said, my chin up as I stared him straight in his beady little eyes.

His lip curled, clearly pissed he didn't get to break me, before he turned around and went on with his lecture—which had nothing to do with UNIDROIT Principles.

* * *

After class,I went straight back to the cage, not letting go of my anger until I closed the door and looked at the opulent room.

I took a moment to take comfort in the fact that the dreary lecture room probably matched the professor's home.

You could say whatever you liked about the quality of the American higher education system and top-notch colleges, but the fact was they didn't pay their professors a living wage.

For a moment, I wondered if that was where his anger came from.

He picked on me because I was the only one that would not get him fired when I called Daddy to complain.

Maybe he just needed to take out his hatred of his ugly, mundane life on someone.

I almost felt sorry for him for a second.

Then I remembered that his bullshit was not my problem.