Then again, I think to myself as I slide out of bed and pad over to the window, perhaps that was because all my friends had their own poetic love affairs to reflect on.
I’ve travelled the world, shopped in the finest stores in Milan and Paris, but making friends? That was hard enough, let alone allowing myself to fall in love. Grow fond of someone. Get attached.
I made that mistake once, long ago, as a little girl. It was my first time at a boarding school. I was born in St. Petersburg, but of course my father insisted on sending me away for my education, wanting me to cultivate a more worldly perspective. So he shipped me off to London when I was only ten years old, and it was there that I learned English, croquet, and gained an eternal love for steak and kidney pies.
It was also the place where I developed my very first crush.
His name was Liam, and I was smitten. Well, as smitten as anyone that age really can be. We even got to hold hands on the playground once before my father decided to take me out of school there and send me to the next academy—all the way in Milan, Italy. Needless to say, my poor little ten-year-old heart was well and truly trampled by this move, and from then on, I have chosen to fly it solo.
Never get attached, and your heart stays intact.
It’s as simple as that.
So far, that philosophy has served me pretty well. I am eighteen now, as of six months ago, and I have very few attachments left in this world.
Self-sufficiency is a prerequisite for my future. As long as I can rely on myself, I will thrive.
I have some old friends from my finishing school in Switzerland that I still keep in touch with after graduating a few weeks back, but who knows how long those friendships will hold up after a long time apart? We are all going in different directions.
For example, right now, I’m lounging around one of my father’s vacation villas. This one is a palatial estate made of blinding white marble, made glittery by the reflection of the Black Sea just across the coastal road. If you stand out front of the place at just the right moment in late afternoon, the whole building seems to glow with the fading light of the sun. It’s pretty magical, if you ask me.
And considering how many beautiful, exotic places I have visited in my eighteen years on the planet, that’s saying something.
I sit down on the edge of the bay window seat, reaching up to push the window a little more open. I inhale deeply, enjoying the lovely scent of the salty sea. It’s another gorgeous day here on the Bulgarian coast, and I’m already pondering what activities I can jump into today.
It’s springtime, so the luscious green gardens, fields, and forests that flank our property are in full bloom. Between whiffs of Black Sea breeze, I can pick up the more subtle hints of flowers blossoming, and I can hear the faint chirping of birds in the trees.
When my father first informed me that he was sending me to Varna for spring vacation after graduating from my boarding school, I thought he was crazy. I mean, Bulgaria? Really? All of my equally wealthy classmates were jetting off to Greece or Monaco, and here I was boarding my father’s private jet to Eastern Europe.
But I stand corrected now that I’m here.
I understand why Daddy decided to invest in this property, after all.
I should never have questioned his judgment. He’s never steered me wrong, and despite our more formal relationship, I respect him. He is a businessman, and a really good one at that. He’s given me all I could have asked for and more, except for more time with him. Ever since Mama died, he’s kept me at arm's length.
But every time in the past when I tried to pry into Daddy’s business dealings, he’s always told me it’s not my business. That I should focus on more delicate things. Even when I put my foot down and cross my arms over my chest and pout—which usually works in every other situation—he just smiles and tells me it’s nothing for me to worry about.
I know I’m spoiled. Pampered, more like. Luckier than most to live a luxurious life.
But I haven’t earned it. Not yet.
Daddy’s the one with the checkbook, and I’m the one with the limitless credit card. With his name on it.
I have no intention of living like this forever. As lovely as his shadow is, I’m not content to hide in it. This spring break holiday is just my way of saying goodbye to my easy childhood before I strike out on my own and make a name for myself.
A particularly strong breeze ruffles through my delicate vintage nightgown, making goosebumps prickle up on my legs. I smile and smooth the skirt of it back down, heading across the room to the en suite bathroom to get ready for the day.
I’m really excited, because Daddy is flying in today to join me for a few days of fun in the sun. This is how it usually works out. The school semester ends and he sends his private jet to sweep me off to some gorgeous, exotic location.
I never fly alone, of course. On past excursions, I have always either gone with a friend of mine or perhaps one of the many attendants and personal assistants my father seems to go through like tissue paper.
I’m not oblivious. I know that’s not the nicest way to conduct business. But he won’t let me into his world. He handles the payroll, and he handles the hiring.
His way is not my way. I just go along with whichever brand-new, bright-eyed, pretty young thing he sends for me.
For example, when he was too wrapped up in some important meeting up in Moscow to attend my graduation from finishing school weeks ago, he sent me a sweet, supportive new friend named Tatyana to watch me walk across the stage instead. When you’re as wealthy as my father, and as isolated as me, it’s the closest thing to friendship you can get.
Bought, paid for, and temporary.
We stuck around campus for a couple days after, shuttled off to a graduation after-party in Zurich, and then hopped on a private jet to come here to the newly-purchased vacation estate in Varna.
I have spent so much time on planes and trains and jets and in limousines that sometimes I feel like I might one day forget how to sit still. But it’s worth it. All the moving around and making new friends over and over again has toughened me up. I can talk to anyone, now. There’s no longer a pit in my stomach when I’m thrust into a new and strange situation.
And I’m more observant than people think.
Including Daddy.
I blink at my reflection in the mirror, trying to decide what kind of look I should go for today. It’s always exciting when he comes into town. He loves me more than anything, but we don’t spend as much time together as I would like.
I should be grateful. His work has afforded me a life that people envy.
But sometimes, I just wish he’d turn off and treat me like his daughter. Keep the loneliness at bay.
I shake that negative thought off, though, and decide on a flouncy ponytail and some winged eyeliner. I wash up, put on makeup, pull my long, honey-colored waves back into a ponytail on top of my head, and then step into my walk-in closet.
I love being surrounded by such pretty things.
Dresses from Rodarte, blouses from Gucci, shoes of the Louboutin or Jimmy Choo persuasion. I have enough designer handbags to fill a small museum. And my jeans? Only the finest, perfectly-tailored fits for my body.
I’m petite, barely a few inches over five feet, with a narrow waist and curves. Compared to some of my classmates, who were six-foot-tall, rail-thin daughters of supermodels from Oslo and Stockholm, I sometimes felt a little too curvy. But that hasn’t stopped designers from sending me free goodie bags of their newest items, urging me to post photos of myself on Instagram in their clothes.
It’s an easy way for them to get someone like me to give them free advertising to my fashion loving followers.
And for me, it’s just another freebie in a world that seems always eager to hand me things I want but don’t really need. But I live a life of conspicuous leisure, and my followers expect that from me.
Standing out in this world is hard, and to get to where I want to be, hav
ing people know my name before I enter a room is a necessity.
I put on a sundress and strappy sandals and head downstairs. Tatyana, looking both exhausted and chipper at the same time, greets me with my favorite iced coffee and a low-calorie pastry.
“Thank you!” I reply happily, taking a big bite.
“You’re welcome, Miss Koroleva,” she says, nodding.
I can’t help but grin at her.
“For the millionth time, you can call me Ana. We’re friends, Tatyana. My dad is your boss, not me.”
“Yes, Miss Kor—Ana,” she corrects herself, blushing. “By the way, your father will be here any minute. His driver called to let me know.”
I jump up and let out a squeal of excitement, nearly spilling my drink.
“Oh my god! Finally. I can’t wait to see him,” I gush.
Just then, we both turn to look at the front door as we hear the sound of tires crunching on gravel. I put my coffee and pastry down on the island and rush out the front door to greet my father, who’s just getting out of the big black sedan. He’s wearing a scowl until his eyes catch sight of me running toward him. It’s like a light switch is flicked in him as he grins and opens his arms wide.
I throw my arms around him and kiss him on the cheek, my heart racing. “Daddy! You’re here! Finally!”
“Da, lisichka,” he croons, patting my cheek. “I’m here now. And we have something very important to talk about.”
I look up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, we do? What is it?”
He glances around, giving the driver a curt nod.
“Let’s go sit in the parlor, da?”
“Okay, yes, of course,” I say hurriedly. I rush back up the front steps and through the grand foyer. I sit down on one of the plush armchairs in the side parlor, watching impatiently as my father saunters into the room and sits down. Meanwhile, Tatyana is tasked with lugging his suitcase up the staircase. I can hear her grunting with exhaustion as the massive suitcase clunks against every stair. Daddy sits down across from me, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.
“What is it?” I ask excitedly. “Where are we going?”
He chuckles, but it seems... dark, somehow. Strange. Usually when he comes to visit he’s overwhelming me with gifts and kisses, but this time he feels distant. A million miles away, even though his piercing eyes stay fixed on mine.
“Oh, my dear. No. We aren’t going anywhere. You are.”
“Alone? Where?”
“You know your Uncle Liev, da?” he begins.
“Yeah, of course.” He’s not my real uncle, just an old friend of my father’s.
“And you know that he has recently lost his zhena,” he continues.
I rest my chin on my hands. “Yes. You mentioned that on the phone awhile back. How is he holding up? Is he okay?”
He smiles wryly.
“Look at you, already so concerned for him. This is how I know you will make a perfect fit for Liev,” he muses, his Russian accent clipping every syllable.
“A perfect fit?” My stomach begins to tighten. I don’t understand why, but my instincts are kicking in to tell me something is not right.
“Da, my little angel. You are of a certain age now, and I am sure you have been wondering where exactly your life will take you next,” he rambles, gesticulating with his hands. My heart begins to race a little faster.
“We’d discussed college,” I remind him. He clucks his tongue.
“Oh, a sweet and gentle mind like yours would be wasted on books,” he remarks, waving off my suggestion like it’s a gnat. “I have something much more fulfilling in mind for my beautiful daughter. The light of my life. The jewel of my crown.”
He’s always complimenting me, but this time it feels wrong. Manipulative.
“Alright, Daddy, get to the point,” I counter. He notices that I’m eyeing him suspiciously now, but he only chuckles and widens his smile even more, unwilling to back down.
“Okay, my doch, I will tell it to you plainly. Your uncle Liev is lonely. In need of a wife to look after him, to keep house, to mother his young ones.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Anastasia, this is a wonderful opportunity for you! To be a little wife to a powerful man. There is no better destiny for my sweet girl. The wedding will be lavish, of course, and you will live in a beautiful mansion, and you can summer in Europe—”
“I already summer in Europe!” I interrupt, standing up and glaring at him in complete horror and disbelief. “I’m in Europe right now!”
He holds his palms, urging me to calm down.
“Da, but you will have your own estates, your own money, your own life—”
“No, I would have Liev’s estates. Liev’s money. Liev’s life. Not my own,” I correct him.
“Ah, but when you are married, it is all the same,” Daddy says cheerfully, ignoring the fact that my face is red and my hands are shaking.
“Daddy. Maybe you hit your head very hard and somehow this hasn’t occurred to you yet but I don’t want to marry Liev. He’s—he’s ancient!” I splutter, throwing up my arms.
He looks mildly offended. “Mr. Ovechkin is my age.”
I roll my eyes. “Exactly.”
He stands up and starts to walk over to me, but I jerk away, staring at him with tears in my eyes. “Daddy, no. I won’t do it. This is insane,” I tell him.
“But you are used to this lifestyle, are you not?” he asks in a quieter voice.
I wrinkle my nose. “Yes.”
“And you want to continue to live this way?”
I shrug. “Sure. I guess.”
“Then you will marry Liev,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Is that an ultimatum?” I gasp, horrified.
I can’t believe this is really happening. I almost want to pinch myself and see if this is just a crazy nightmare.
“No. It is a fact,” he says. “You have no choice.”
“I’m eighteen years old now. I’m a legal adult. I don’t have to marry him if I don’t want to,” I insist, fighting back tears. I feel so betrayed. So confused. This isn’t the father I know. My daddy would never force me to do something like this against my will. He has always taken such good care of me, given me everything I could possibly ask for, and now… well, this is totally out of character.
“That may be, but you are still my daughter. Ana, the ceremony takes place next week. In Brighton Beach.”
“Next week?” I burst out. “In New York?”
“Da. And you will be there in a white dress. I will walk you down the aisle. And you will marry Liev Ovechkin, whether you like it or not. You will learn to love him.”
“Oh, I will, will I?” I snap, tears burning my eyes. My entire world has been shaken off its foundation, and my head begins to spin, my vision beginning to blur. But even through the fog of tears and confusion, I can see my father give me a broad, confident smile.
“Da. You will. Because I say so.”
Anastasia
“Miss Koroleva, the stewardess asked you a question,” chirps a rather nervous voice off to my right.
I snap back to reality, blinking rapidly and shaking my head. I turn around to look up at the stewardess in her bright blue blazer and pencil skirt. She’s smiling down at me expectantly, her perfectly-manicured hands wrapped around the handle of the refreshments cart. I smile back sheepishly, blushing a little.
I peer around the stewardess to see Tatyana looking over at me. She looks both apologetic and concerned. I know she knows exactly why I’m on this private jet right now, and the reason seems to bother her almost as much as it bothers me.
She has only been working for my father, and by extension, me, for a few short months, but I’m sure she’s already picked up on the tension going on between the two members of my messed-up little family.
Of course, she’s just a personal assistant, so it’s not like she has the authority to say anything about it. But I can tell it’s eating her up
inside. I make a mental note to talk to her about it once the stewardess leaves us alone.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I just zoned out, I guess,” I remark to the stewardess, nervously tucking my hair behind my ears. “What did you say?”
“Would you like anything to eat or drink? We have those juice boxes you like. And your father specially requested those figs stuffed with goat cheese and honey you loved so much in Greece last year,” she explains.
Her name plaque reads SHELLEY. You might think by now I would know the names of all the flight crew and staff, but to be perfectly honest, they change around so often it’s hard to keep them all straight. My father has a tendency to be rather fickle in his firing and hiring practices. I learned that a long time ago. Never get too attached to a certain kindly stewardess or maid or tutor because they might not stick around for very long.
One time, years and years ago, when I was about twelve years old, daddy sent me off to some exclusive summer camp in the south of France. It’s the kind of place reserved for the children of only the most elite, well-off, flashy millionaires and billionaires in the world.
We took surfing lessons in Nice, took day trip outings to the ritzy resorts and restaurants just over the border in Monaco. Not a single one of my bunkmates arrived without a limitless credit card or a thick wad of cold, hard cash to spend freely and flamboyantly over the summer.
And perhaps bunkmates is a less fitting term for what we really were. Nobody bunked together. We all had our own plush, beautifully-appointed room and en suite bathroom. At twelve years old, I had a rain shower and a bidet.
Despite how fancy and high-class the summer camp claimed to be, I was homesick and lonely. Now, you might think it’s impossible to feel homesick when you spend more time traveling than at home in the first place, but I was twelve years old, away at camp with a bunch of French strangers, and I got my period for the first time ever.
Killing for Her Page 2