Page 21 of Mistaken
“Get out of here.” I could hear him laughing down the hall. He’d pay for that. Clearing my throat, I answered. “Hello, Pavel.”
“Maksim.” His voice was gravelly, furious. “Katya came home in tears last night. She told me something that can’t possibly be correct.”
“I’m assuming she told you about my engagement.” Something crashes in the background, broken glass, I believe.
“How dare you! Marrying some American cunt and spurning my Katya?”
“Be careful how you speak about my bride-to-be,” I snarled. How dare this?????talk to me like this?
Sokolov is bright enough to back off, at least a bit. “The arrangement between you and Katya has been planned for decades.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Your father and I planned to unite our families when Katya and you were of age, we spoke of-”
“Again,” I interrupted, “this is the first I’ve heard of it. You and I have never spoken of this and I have been seeing my fiancée for over six months.”
“Then why this sudden wedding!” Sokolov shouted.
“It has been planned for some time,” I grinned, pausing for a moment, “but we have news that requires us to move the date up to next week.”
“She’s pregnant?” I hear something else shatter. There must not be many breakables left in his lurid mansion.
“That’s not something we’re discussing, but you should be receiving your invitation today. I do hope you can join us. Goodbye, Pavel.” I end the call quickly, cutting him off mid-shout. The oldsvoloch'was lying about creating an arrangement with my father- he hated the Sokolovs. In fact, more than one had died at his order without ever being traced back to us.
I think back on what my mother said about Ella getting upset. Maybe it’s time to pay her a visit and remind her of what is at stake.
Ella…
It had been easier to pretend that this whole horror story since Maksim roofied and kidnapped me was just… some weird fever dream and that I’d eventually wake up and get ready for work, reminding myself to never drink tequila again because it gave me terrible nightmares.
But seeing Marla at the wedding boutique smacked me right in the face with a big dose of reality. I’d lost my job and likely, my career, thanks to this unconscionable swine. Everything I’d worked for. I’d held down three jobs during graduate school, and tolerated misogynistic professors and then co-workers. I succeeded by working harder than they did, I knew I was smarter. And if I don’t magically wake up, this is real and my life is over. And I still didn’t understand why Maksim decided on trapping me in this Bratva freak show. Why? Why me? It can’t be to keep me quiet about the whole, “Sorry we kidnapped and threatened to kill you, it’s a case of mistaken identity, oops!” I’d have to be suicidal to ever speak of this to anyone.
So, why me? Maksim was apparently Bratva royalty. I don’t know how they determined that. Highest body count? How many kilos of cocaine sold?
“There you are.”
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,I thought sourly.
“Why are you sitting in your closet?” He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed and looking infuriatingly casual in his perfect suit.
Standing, I rubbed my sweaty hands on my dress. “It’s quiet.”
Maksim arched an elegant brow. “This entire penthouse is soundproofed. It’s the quietest spot in Manhattan.” He put his hands in his pockets and strolled over to me. “You selected a dress?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, looking at me curiously. “What does it look like?”
“It’s…” I had no idea. Tania picked something and sold his family on its excellence, “...white?”
His head lowered, like a wolf scenting a prey animal, which in this case would be me, because he moves closer. “Darling, you don’t seem excited. My mother, in fact, commented that you seemed upset and hid in the dressing room.”
I’m circling around him and backing toward the bedroom, where there’s more room to maneuver. “Please tell me one thing, Maksim.”
“And what would that be, Ella?” We’re in the middle of the bedroom and I’m contemplating making a break for the door or the bathroom.
“Why me, Maksim? Just tell me the truth. I’d have to be clinically insane to tell anyone about last weekend, so why? I mean, half the supermodels from New York Fashion Week would give up a Vogue cover to marry you.”
