Like a demon summoned by my earlier thoughts about him, Alexei Leonov stands in front of me, a cruel smile dancing on his lips.
Chapter4
10 Years and 9 Months Earlier, Moscow
“Ihate winter holidays,” I tell Konstantin as he sets up my new gaming computer. “I really do.”
His gaze doesn’t leave the screen as his fingers fly over the keyboard. “You hate seeing me?”
“No, silly, not you.” My oldest brother is my favorite, in fact. “I’m talking aboutthat.” I circle my finger in the air to indicate the raised voices filtering into my room through the air vent.
My parents think that because the walls in our penthouse are thick, nobody can hear them fighting, but I can. I always hear them.
Konstantin finally looks at me, his hazel eyes distracted behind his glasses. “Ah, yes, that.”
He goes back to installing the software, and I plop onto my bed with a sigh. As much as I love Kostya, his emotional IQ is far below his genius-level general intelligence. I sometimes wonder if he’s on the spectrum, like that kid in my class who’s brilliant but socially challenged. Then again, this could just be how my brother deals with the pressure of being the oldest Molotov son—by opting out of the whole thing altogether. Luckily for my parents, they have Nikolai, who thrives on all the wheeling, dealing, and other business bullshit, and Valery, who, while strange in his own way, displays the Machiavellian traits that Papa adores.
Me, I’m just the daughter. All that’s expected of me is to look pretty and eventually marry well, so the Molotovs become even richer and better connected. Yay for feminism. Maybe in another century or so, it’ll reach our social circle in Moscow. Of course, I’m a shitty daughter, so I don’t plan to do what’s expected of me. I’ve already refused the stupid agency’s offer to model for them—something Mama had a fit over, but whatever—and I’m certainly not marrying some annoying politician just so that Papa can secure another government contract.
I’m going to attend college in the States, study computer science, and get a job at a video game company like Nintendo. Preferably in Japan or some other cool place. Russia is so not my jam.
An alarm goes off on my phone, startling me.
Oh, crap. I almost forgot.Dan.
“What’s that?” Konstantin asks absentmindedly, and I sigh, silencing the alarm.
“My English lesson, what else?”
One measly C on an essay, and this is the result: an hour-long session with Dan every day over the holidays. I get straight A’s in math and science, but not in English—probably because I prefer to read in Russian. I find English grammar and spelling patterns as incomprehensible as the workings of Valery’s mind.
Grudgingly, I pull on my sweatshirt and head to the library downstairs, where Dan is waiting for me. Mama told me that if I skip these lessons, I won’t be returning to my boarding school in New Hampshire this upcoming semester. She’ll enroll me in a school in Moscow instead, since, and I quote, “You’re clearly wasting your time in America.” Never mind that my American peers can’t even tell that I’m from Russia when they speak to me, or that plenty of them get C’s or worse on their essays and exams. Oh, no, my written English must be perfect, or else I’m “wasting” time.
Yeah, whatever.
Dan jumps up as soon as I enter the library, a wide grin on his freckled face. “There you are. I was worried you weren’t feeling well again.”
“Nope, the headache is gone,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes as he pulls out a chair for me, all gentleman-like. Since that chair is right next to him, I pointedly pull out a different one for myself across the table. This way, he can gawk at me, but not do those accidental elbow and hand brushes that creep me out so much.
Seriously, why are men such creeps?
I suppose, objectively speaking, Dan Sutter isn’t ugly. He’s somewhere in his mid-twenties and looks like the grown version of Ron fromHarry Potter. He works as an aide at the US embassy and tutors rich Russian kids on the side. Mama met him at one of those political functions she and Papa often attend.
I’ve contemplated telling her about Dan’s crush on me, or at least mentioning it to Konstantin, but I don’t want word to get back to Papa and Nikolai. I can’t forget what happened when I was twelve, after one of our bodyguards walked in on me changing and stayed a few seconds too long.
The man didn’t leave the hospital for several months afterward.
I don’t want that to happen to Dan. Not even if he’s a bit of a creep. Instead, I do whatever I can to avoid these lessons, like faking headaches and pretending to forget about the time—a strategy that, unfortunately, Mama has caught on to. Hence the threat to take me out of my boarding school and make me live here full-time.
Yeah, no, thanks. I’d rather put up with an hour of Dan every day over the holidays than listen to Mama and Papa fighting year-round.
“Today, we’ll tackle dangling modifiers,” Dan says, and I suppress a groan.
Why? Why does anyone give a shit about this? Who cares if the modifier dangles—whatever that means?
Nevertheless, I dutifully follow along as Dan goes over what constitutes a “modifier” and why it’s a bad thing when it “dangles.” I think I’m starting to get it. Maybe. It’s such a boring topic that even though Dan talks with the enthusiasm of an auctioneer hyping up a priceless painting, I have to fight the urge to yawn. To help myself concentrate, I stare at Dan’s freckled hands as he waves them about, specifically at the big, gaudy ring on his right middle finger. It’s one of those class or club rings. Dan’s is from a Yale fraternity, and he must be really proud that he’s an alum because he wears the stupid thing all the time.
The sounds of voices in the hallway reach my ears, distracting me for a moment. Does Papa have guests again?