I look away, my hand tightening on the wine glass.
“I’m helping you regain your heart and soul and whatever else you gave him when you were too young to know any better, so you can move on. Perhaps you need some kind of closure. But the biggest driver for you is guilt. You feel terrible for having used a fake ID, something all teenagers do in this no-joy country of yours, and you’re still trying to pay for that mistake.”
“I could’ve ruined his life.”
“Could have, but didn’t. It hurt no one.”
He can say that because he doesn’t believe in love or fairy tales. “You didn’t see him that night, Tolyan.”
“Hurt feelings don’t kill you.” He mutters something in Russian. From his derisive tone, I bet he’s saying “pussy” or some variation of it.
Refusing to give in—hurt feelings may not kill you, but they can shrivel your soul—I raise my wine glass. With an exasperated sigh, he takes the half-full glass from my hand and drains it into a trash bin before placing it on my vanity with a click.
“Let it go.”
“Tolyan—”
“You aren’t omnipotent. You can’t save everyone.”
I sigh. It’s the same argument we’ve had for the last five years. I can’t help but sound petulant when I say, “Yes, Daddy.”
A
s usual, he ignores my sarcasm. His gaze lands on the two huge suitcases and a carry-on. “I thought it was only for a couple of days.”
“I know, but just in case.”
He mutters something about women and their shoes and purses. As he helps me with my bags, he says, “I’m calling Ming Ming’s head of security.”
“That’s—”
“Absolutely necessary unless you want me to put four men on the plane with you. You may trust Dominic King, but I don’t.”
I sigh. This is the best deal I’m getting. He’s been on edge since my call about the photo. “Okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth
A pink Lady Dior purse hanging from my arm, I walk into the small terminal reserved for private jets. Although I’m tired from having stayed up the night before, I keep my step jaunty, my sky-high gold stilettos hitting the linoleum floor with the steady click-click I practiced under Grandma Shirley’s watchful eye.
Not too fast. Not too slow. Just right, so you look fresh, youthful and energetic without sacrificing elegance or dignity.
I took a great pains this morning to look the part of a carefree yet compassionate heiress, and it’s paid off.
Dominic is reading something on his phone, his brow furrowed. A black jacket fits his wide shoulders and lean, muscular torso perfectly, and the white dress shirt with two buttons undone makes him look slightly more casual…and approachable. Black pants hint at the powerful legs underneath. He doesn’t have to get undressed for me to know he’s maintained his superb physique. He isn’t the type to let things slide.
The sunlight streaming in through the glass walls hits his black hair, giving it hints of reddish-brown highlights. My fingers twitch with the need to brush it back, just to feel its silken texture. But regret, resentment and longing lance through my heart. How different things could’ve been…if only…
Dad’s words ring in my head: You shouldn’t have bothered, Elizabeth. People talk as though love is absolute, but you see how easily it crumbles… Now you owe me a favor and have nothing to show for it.
Then he shrugged—shrugged—while I barely managed to stay on my feet, my heart shattering so completely it could never be put back together.
Dominic lifts his head and looks at me, his blue eyes unreadable, and I get yanked back to the present. Adjusting my sunglasses, I widen my smile, arranging my expression into one of warmth and sweetness. “I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”
“I just got here.” His gaze falls on my carry-on. “That’s all?”
“Your staff took my other bags.”