I stare at him. Not toying with me? Is he delusional or just being an asshole?
“Half an hour,” I mumble.
“Good. I think you’ll appreciate this.”
He turns to leave my room, but I stop him. “Wait, you think I’ll appreciate what?”
Viktor glances back at me. “Clarity.”
“Where are we going?”
We’re in the car, headed somewhere within Chicago limits. My mood is sour. Partly because Viktor did what he’s so good at—turning me to mush and then walking away. But also, because I tried to call my dad—twice—before I left just now to ask him what the hell he’s doing with Zoey. But of course, no response. Again.
I turn to glare at Viktor’s profile, sitting next to me in the town car. His lips curl slightly at the corners as he glances at me in amusement.
“Do you not like surprises?”
“From you? No.”
He smiles curiously. “And why is that?”
“Because the last ‘surprise’ I got from you was a ‘surprise, you’re a prisoner in my mansion now.’ That’s why.”
Viktor smirks and turns to look out the window. “Interesting.”
I don’t want to take the bait. But of course, I do.
“Interesting?” I mutter. “What’s so interesting about it?”
“Nothing. I’d just assumed that we were both in agreement on what the last surprise I gave you was.”
I frown. “Meaning?”
He turns to me, smirking. “I believe there was a pool chair involved.”
I blush deeply, quickly whirling away from him to glare out the window. I’m simmering all over as I hear his deep, quiet chuckle.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” I say quietly.
“You really want me to ruin the surprise?”
“Please do.”
Viktor shrugs. “As you wish. We’re visiting the land you’ve just helped me acquire. The site of my future project.”
“The old sneaker factory?”
He nods. “I thought it would be nice for you to see what you’ve helped start.”
My phone dings, and I glance at it. It’s a text, from my dad of all people. It’s the first communication I’ve had back from him since Viktor took me away.
Hello sweetheart. How are you doing? <3, Dad.
I stare at it, anger rising inside of me. If you didn’t know him, or me, or our relationship, it would look like a normal text from a father to his daughter. But I can see how bullshit it is. It’s like he’s posing for a photo op with it. It’s staged.
I write out “screw you” before deleting it and staring at the phone. My dad sends another text.
I want you to know how sorry I am, Fiona. I took risks I shouldn’t have to advance my career. I thought I knew what I was doing and who I was working with. But I was wrong, and now you’re paying my price. I’m so sorry, honey. I’m fixing this as soon as I can.
I stare at the phone. I want to still be furious at him. I want to hate him for what he’s put me in the middle of. Not to mention his utterly vile behavior towards Zoey. But I falter. I know he’s a practiced politician who knows all the right things to say. And I know he can be a narcissistic asshole. But he’s still my father, and something about his words makes me really feel the remorse.
I sigh and type out a response:
It’s okay, dad. I’m fine. I’m not hurt, and no one is threatening to hurt me either. I’m being taken care of.
I smile and follow it up with another text.
I’m actually getting some legal experience in helping Mr. Komarov with a land deal, as an advisor. We’re actually about to tour the site—this old sneaker factory in Southside. The circumstances are strange, but it’s exciting to be at least sort of doing what I’ve worked hard for.
I stare at my phone, waiting for the little dots showing he’s typing something back. But it never comes. I keep looking, waiting for a reply. But after twenty more minutes, I finally put the phone away.
Guess my dad exhausted his “being a dad” points all on those first two texts.
“Everything okay?”
I frown and glare out the window.
“Fiona.”
I slowly turn to Viktor. For a moment, I want to tell him about my dad—how he’s barely contacted me since Viktor took me. But he must know that already, since he has my phone bugged. But also, as angry as I am at my father, there’s the worry of what might happen if I tell Viktor everything. I shiver, wondering what sort of violence he’s truly capable of.
“Nothing, it’s just…” I shake my head. “My friend Zoey is having trouble with this older guy.”
He frowns. “What sort of trouble.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me, please.”
I worry my lip. “It’s really nothing. Just a way older guy being gross. Hitting on her, texting her gross stuff. That sort of thing.”
He frowns. “I see.”
“She’s…” I smile. “She’s Zoey. She’ll be okay.”
He nods, looking at me curiously. I turn to glare out the window as my thoughts sour back to my father and his lack of being any sort of real dad.
I’m still sulking when the town car stops. I’m also still simmering inside. I’ve been sitting inches away from this man for half an hour, in silence. But it’s charged silence. It’s like a static spark has been hovering in the air between us. It’s like he’s purposefully teased me so that I’m squirming with desire, only to leave me wanting. What do I want? Him? Do I want the dangerous man who’s keeping me hostage to do anything like that to me?
The answer is easy though, even if it’s mortifying. Of course I do.
The big bodyguard who I guess I’m friends with now opens the car door and offers me a hand. I smile as he helps me out, thanking him. But then I pause.
“What’s your name, by the way?”
He frowns.
“Your name,” I stress. Okay, so he’s Russian. I point at my chest. “My name is Fiona,” I say slowly, over-annunciating. “What is your—”
He chuckles deeply
