WE CHOSE THE ROOFTOP of the Manhattan penthouse for the engagement. Really, Luca chose it when he kept hounding me about the venue and I told him to take a pick and piss off.
We’re on the thirty-seventh floor of Hampshire House, one of Central Park’s most exclusive white glove buildings. Walls of crystal glass, skylights, and large windows. It’s one of our most impressive properties, and the media will eat it up.
I hate dealing with PR, but they help us keep our image squeaky clean. So when they tell me to sit in on their Stock Exchange meetings, I do it. And when they tell me to sit for the cover of Forbes, I do that, too.
People will believe anything when you have the right face. One charming smile from me and they eat it up. It’s funny how few suspect that the Costa foundation’s generous donations to charity is from the mass distribution of illegal narcotics.
Glancing around, I can’t help but wonder how much Sof would’ve loved planning something like this, but the thought only turns my blood to fire. I waited five years for this. Five years to watch the desperation on Yuri’s face as I snatch his most prized possession from his clutches and keep it forever.
Or however long it lasts, at least.
The Morozovs are late. As always.
The little Morozov is a black hole personified. I can’t believe I let her get such a rise out of me two days ago at that lunch. I had control of the pressure of my fingers around her neck, but she only had to incite me a little more for me to lose it. I would’ve choked the life out of her right there and then if she hadn’t looked up at me with the slightest bit of confusion amidst the defiance in her hazel eyes.
Those kind of eyes don’t belong on such a heinous girl.
I offered her my gun to kill herself and she was about to take it. She would have chosen death over marrying me.
I’ve dealt with men far more insufferable than her without blinking twice, but for some reason, she grates on my fucking nerves. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone as much as I want to hurt her. But I’ve never laid a hand on a woman, and I don’t plan to.
Evidence of her will to fight is etched in the scars on my right hand from when she dug her nails into my skin. And fuck, I can’t even decide if I hate the marks or not. Can’t stop looking at them, either.
I tuck my hands in my pockets and instead glance up to find Luca with a fucking escort clinging to his side. A platinum blonde Barbie, her fake tits bursting through the seams of her low-cut gold dress. It’s cheap and tasteless — right up my idiotic cousin’s alley.
They makes their way toward me, and just my luck, the girl reaches for me with her arms wide open.
“Oh hi,” Barbie purrs, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “Congratulations on your engagement. The place is amazing.”
Her perfume is too fucking strong to bear. I clench my jaw as I step out of her touch. She frowns as she turns to Luca, who snaps to her defence a little too late.
“Aw, babe,” he says, “you know he didn’t mean that.”
“I meant it.”
Luca flashes me a pointed look before patting Barbie’s ass. “Go check out the view, I’ll be there soon.”
Then he turns to me. “You for real?”
I shrug. “The girl was throwing herself at me. If she had a choice she would’ve fucked me right here.”
Luca sighs, running a hand over his face. “Can you at least act like you’re enjoying yourself? It’s your engagement and you look like something crawled up your fuckin’—”
A commotion starts up in the gathering crowd behind me, and I turn to see what it’s about.
The Morozovs. About time.
Yuri isn’t one for glamorous shows, but he’s dressed smart today— in a well fitted suit with his grey hair buzzed. At his side, Greta plays the part of the archetypal wife, in a chaste bottle green dress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
I turn back to my cousin. “Didn’t know you had a kink for pensioners.”
“Firstly,” Luca quips, “Don’t kink shame. And secondly, I’m not looking at them, asshole. I’m looking at her.”
The object of his attention comes into view. And I can’t believe my fucking eyes. Because in the light, Freya Morozov is unrecognizable. Her fox brown hair is loose, falling in waves down to her back. She’s wearing some sort of makeup that makes her eyes bigger and brighter, and a cream fur coat is draped around her shoulders as she argues with her mother.
Greta’s face is doused with disapproval as her words carry from a distance. “I thought I told you to wear the sequined dress.”
Freya grimaces. “It was too flashy.”
Greta’s face twists with displeasure. “You are getting engaged. You need to stand out. Look at your sister! So bright and lovely.”
Behind them, Anastasia appears. She’s objectively attractive, in a bright-yellow dress that flares at the waist and shows considerable cleavage.
Freya groans.
“And this coat?” Greta shakes her head. “I didn’t agree to let you wear black so you could walk around kak monakhinya v monastyre! Take off the coat!”
Knowing what little I do of this girl, of her temperament, I know she’ll fight her mother back.
But she doesn’t. She listens.
Frustrated, Freya slips off the fur coat.
My blood heats.
The dress is short. Black. She’s always in shades of black. But unlike the other times, this dress fits to the shape of her body. A lot more skin is bared, too. Her collarbones are bare, and her neckline plunges, baring some cleavage. There’s a cut-out of her back and her arms. I can see everything — the outline of her tits, the curve of her ass. Fuck. A bitter girl with the sweetest ass.
Anastasia is wearing bright yellow. But ironically, it’s Freya, not Anastasia that I keep finding in the crowd of people. Freya, in that pitch black, tight fitting fucking dress.
I don’t miss the taunting click of her black heels as she nears me. And instead of walking over, the little Morozov walks straight past me. The scent of her lingers, sweet wine and raspberry. She’s avoiding me. Amusing, since I’m the one putting a ring on her by the end of this. Still, I’ve never been so blatantly ignored, and it annoys the fuck out of me.
Luca laughs. “I might have been wrong about her.”
I don’t grace him with a look. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Your fiancé, man. She’s a complete smoke show.” He whistles through his teeth. “I thought you were out of your fuckin’ mind when you asked for the other sister. But damn.”
I clench my fists to keep from swinging them into his jaw. Whether I can stand Freya or not, there are a few more moments before she becomes my fiancé in front of the world. And when Luca disrespects her, he disrespects me.
“One more fucking word from your mouth about her,” I mutter, through gritted teeth, “and we won’t be having this conversation anymore.”
Luca backs down. “Fuck, T. I’m just playing, man. Besides, I got my sweet thing right over there.”
He motions to Barbie, who’s at the far end, talking to some man twice her age. Luca walks off, leaving me to stare in the crowd. Probably for his own good, since I was two seconds away from clocking the fuck out of him.
While Ana talks to one of my biggest funders and owner of a large conglomerate, Freya’s talking to some fucking waiter. Her fox brown hair isn’t in the braid she always ties it in. Instead, it’s brushed out and falls down her back, thick and shiny. Probably on her mother’s instruction.
The little Morozov laughs at something the waiter says, and I’m too far away to hear the sound. I tolerate it for a while, until I can’t anymore. Irritation flares inside me as she laughs at something the waiter says. Is she horny for waiters or some shit? This asshole’s blatantly staring at her tits.
I stalk over, right to them, coming up behind Freya as I meet the waiter’s gaze. He’s young. And terrified.
Good.
I clear my throat. “Do we pay you to stay in one spot for this long?”
He blinks rapidly, struggling to meet my gaze. “N-no sir.”
And just like that, he’s out of sight.
Perfect.
I feel the burning weight of Freya’s gaze on my back. I thought my intrusion would get a rise out of her, but she’s silent. I turn to face her, and it takes effort not to lower my eyes to the plunge of her cleavage.
And resting on her collarbone is that silver locket — in the shape of a heart. She isn’t even wearing the Morozov emblem—it would be foolish to in public, but she’s still wearing that fucking heart locket? Who gave it to her? A lover?
I clench and unclench my jaw. “You signed the contract.”
She ignores me. Doesn’t even bother meeting my gaze — just crosses her arms to show how unbothered she is. The action only pushes her tits out more, so they spill a little out of the neckline of her dress.
Gritting my teeth, I avert my gaze. “Didn’t know you’d go so far to protect your big sister.”
Still no reply. She’s not even looking at me. Frustration bleeds though my veins. I follow her line of gaze where Greta is talking to Anastasia’s mogul. Greta smiles lovingly, pressing Anastasia’s head to her chest as she holds her fondly. Freya stares at the scene with clear longing in her eyes.
I turn to her. “You want to know something else I noticed?”
This time, she gives me a momentary flicker of her fiery hazel eyes. The question lies in her gaze, even though she doesn’t say it. What?
A slow smile. “Your mother despises you.”
I strike a nerve. The cool, icy nonchalance she had for me earlier is replaced by a burning rage. She bites down, hard —hard enough fire me to catch the twitch in her perfect jaw before glaring at me. “You don’t know anything.”
And then it hits me. Why her father feels the need to protect her, why she was hidden away all this time. I can’t say the thought didn’t occur to me during the years I waited, but I brushed it off on the basis that Yuri was always loyal to his wife.
But now, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out earlier. “You’re not hers.”
I’m glad I didn’t pull more information from Lucky that day. Glad I refused when Luca asked if he should get a file on her. Because I’m enjoying this. Way too fucking much.
There’s actual pain in her eyes. Tears from like tiny diamonds at the edge of her eyes.
Intense distaste floods my veins at the sight. I want to slap them off her face. Give her a reason to cry. But I’ve never laid a hand on a woman, and I never plan to. So I coax anger out of her instead. “Looks like Papa had a bit too much fun.”
Freya balls her hands into fists so hard her knuckles go white. The sight amuses me. She must want to punch me so bad. I wonder if she knows how to land one. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. And if she doesn’t, I find myself wanting to teach her. Even in the likely chance she’d use my lessons against me.
She’s shaking with anger, tears brimming in her eyes as she meets my gaze. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
This. This is what I’m familiar with. Her anger I’m comfortable with. It keeps me alert. Sets a fire under my skin. Her tears are a scab I want to pick.
“Watch it,” I warn, but my tone is more asinine than threatening.
She scoffs, blinking back the tears rapidly.
“So now you know,” she says, not meeting my gaze, “that I’m a bastard child. Do you still want me?”
She thinks I’ll call off the arrangement because she’s not the legitimate daughter? A humorless laugh escapes me. “I never wanted you. You were just convenient to me. And as long as your father loves you, you’ll be convenient to me.”
She goes quiet and her eyes go glossy, and I decide that I can’t fucking stand her. But then she laughs. Actually laughs. I was expecting anger. Not an apathetic laugh. Then she sobers. There aren’t many men with the courage to do it, but she meets my gaze. Looks me straight in the eye and says, “You have no idea how much I hate you.”
A wave of displeasure rolls over me. “No. Tell me.”
Her hazel eyes come alive — a wild, green fire. “More than I’ve hated anything.”
Then, she walks away, picking up a glass of wine on the way and downing it.
I leave her to it. One of our partners, an old fuck halfway to his deathbed but somehow still bothered about making more money, walks up to me to talk about “future business prospects”.
I’m half an hour into listening to him drone on when my eyes find Freya again in the crowd again. She’s traipsing to the edge of the loft, the edge of the penthouse, lined only by clear glass. Any further and she’ll end up splattered on the pavement thirty-seven floors down.
Shifting my gaze to Davis, I lift a hand. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I stride over to her, cutting through the crowd. A reporter tracks my movement, and I’m acutely aware that he’s two seconds away from taking an incriminating picture of my fiancé. Unless she throws herself off the edge of the loft before.
Finally, I reach the brat. My hand finds the soft bare skin of her upper arm as I drag her inside the loft, into a room, locking the door behind us. She doesn’t make it easy, hissing and clawing at me the whole way through. “What are you doing? Let go of me!”
She can barely even stand on her own two feet. Repulsed, I fling her to the bed. “Don’t walk around and act like I didn’t give you a chance to run. I don’t give a fuck if you’re high out of your mind. You signed the contract. This ends with my ring on your finger.”
I find a glass of water on the coffee table, and instead of offering it to her, I throw it in her face. She gasps and splutters. “What the hell?”
“Sober the fuck up. Now.”
Pure incredulity paints her face, her cheeks flushed from the wine. Her left brow twitches. Almost instantly, she stands, reaching out to slap me.
I clamp down on my jaw. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”
She shakes with anger as she slowly lowers her hand, sitting back on the bed.
“Joke’s on you.” She laughs bitterly, devoid of any emotion. “My makeup is waterproof.”
I narrow my eyes. “You are going to get your shit together. You will walk out of this room and act like I pulled you in here to fuck your brains out.”
At this, she stiffens. I don’t miss the way her chest rises and contracts, like she misses a breath, and her cheeks flush pink. Then she scoffs, glancing up at me. “Of course, master. Why don’t I send a reporter in here after so you can suck him off? You know, since you’re so concerned with your image.”
I clench my jaw. “One more word. One more fucking word.”
She must detect that I’m on my last dregs of patience, because she stays quiet. Her face is still wet from when I threw the water into it, but I’m not stupid enough to notice when tears start to roll down her cheeks.
Annoyed, I pull out tissues from a box at the nightstand and walk closer to her. But as soon as I near the foot of the bed, she turns her face away from me stubbornly. I grip her chin and forcefully bring her face up to me.
There’s only hatred in her tear-filled eyes. Pure hatred. I place the tissue on her cheek, letting it soak up the water and tears. She was right — her makeup is waterproof. Because her face is still fucking perfect. And wiping it is like petting a wildfire.
I chose this girl because I didn’t want any trouble. Anastasia was soft and subservient, but I’d only be a fucking fool to assume she wasn’t going to pry into my business. That kind of beauty is too distracting. But Freya, with her reckless, callous attitude — every inch of her skin covered in grime that day — I’d never be tempted with her.
But now, as I look at the girl in front of me, the little heathen — I wonder if I was tricked, somehow. Because scrubbed down, hair brushed, smooth skin, cheeks flushed — Freya Morozov is fucking ethereal.
She’s young. So fucking young. She rivals even her sister’s beauty. The beauty of every woman in a twenty-mile radius.
Her flushed rosy because of the wine. There’s a hot-red flash of defiance in her hazel eyes, and it sends blood rushing to my groin. Long eyelashes, smooth cheekbones and a plush mouth— with a top lip slightly bigger than the bottom. The faintest white scar on her chin.
My hold on her chin must have loosened, because she flings it away carelessly. Her eyes are glossed over as she looks up at me with deep rage. “Don’t touch me.”
I make a mental note to keep my hands off her. She stands, checks her face in the mirror, runs a hand through her hair, then walks out. I give it a few seconds, then walk out after her. Just like I guessed, the reporter is waiting right outside the room.
Suddenly, Freya glances back at me with a sultry look, tucks her hair behind her ear, and then pretends to hide the smile on her full lips.
I’m shocked for a moment, and it takes a moment for my cock to catch up. It’s stirring against the fly of my pants at the heat in her eyes.
She’s just acting. Like I told her to.
Gathering my frayed ends, I meet the reporters gaze and smirk, adjusting myself in front of him. He grimaces and walks off. Because “Costa fucks his fiancé minutes before engagement” isn’t the best clickbait.
When my father notices Freya emerging, he frowns and nudges Luca, who’s at his side. Luca meets my gaze, lifting a brow. You ready?
But he already knows my answer: I don’t give a fuck. Let’s finish this shit up and get a fucking move on.
Across the space, my father catches my gaze and narrows his eyes. He’s eyeing Freya, and I know that if I don’t get to her first, he will. So I quicken my stride, catching up with her easily before grabbing her forearm.
Freya pulls back and glares back at me with acid in her eyes, but it quickly dissolves into a dull apathy. Just like that, the defiance leaves her eyes as she gives up the fight and lets me drag her to the stage. I hate her obedience almost as much as her disobedience.
The sound of metal against glass rings out and the crowd hushes as Luca speaks. “All right everyone. Shut the fuck up.”
There’s hushed laughter as people think he’s joking. He isn’t.
“My dearest cousin is about to get engaged to the beautiful Freya Morozov,” Luca pauses with a smirk aimed at me. “The love of his life. Please join me and the couple in celebrating their ring ceremony and joining of our families.”
I glance at Freya on the stage.
She’s fidgeting with the length of her dress. Without thinking, I kneel, pulling it out for her. When she looks at me, her gaze is surprisingly soft, but when the crowd murmurs in approval and cameras flash, her gaze clouds with realization, turning into a scowl.
She thinks I did it for the press.
I resist the urge to huff a laugh. Good. Better that than the truth — that I helped her because I was so fucking struck by her face. By her.
She gives me the wrong hand to put the ring on. No one seems to notice.
This was a mistake. A big fucking mistake.
My fiancé hates me.
And it turns me on.
I shut down the irrational part of my mind. Five years later, revenge is sweet at the tip of my tongue as I meet Yuri Morozov’s deeply troubled gaze in the crowd, and I’m reminded why I’m doing all of this. Not for Freya Morozov’s feelings. In fact, the more she hates me — the more miserable this makes her — the better.
It’s the wrong hand, but I slip the ring on her finger anyway.
❖ ❖ ❖
authorʼs note:
search “torren and freya” on spotify for the book playlist.
follow me on instagram and twitter for sneak peeks! @rhianovakauthor
until the next chapter <3