Page 51 of Unrequited
“End of the month, sir,” he says.
A week. One goddamn week.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
“I knew you’d want to know,” he adds. “And I know you want to stop it, don’t you, sir?”
How much does he know?
“What is it?” I growl. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“You’ve got one person behind those bars who can help you. You know that, don’t you? One favor left to cash in.”
I nod slowly, though he can’t see it. “Now’s the fucking time,” I agree.
Zoya. Married to another man.
Over.
My.
Dead.
Body.
Chapter 11
ZOYA
My eyes driftto the beautiful white wedding gown hanging from the back of my bedroom door. It glows, almost ethereal in the soft evening light, mocking me with its purity. I’ve been primped and preened within an inch of my existence. Waxed, plucked, exfoliated, scrubbed raw and moisturized back to glowing perfection. There’s not an unwanted hair on my body, not a single one out of place on my head.
My complexion? Spotless. But my eyes betray me. There's a sunken, hollow look in them I can’t quite hide. Since Seamus left, food has been tasteless. My appetite died the day he walked away—no, the day I learned he wasn’t who I thought he was.
I've always been slim, but now I border on fragile. Gaunt. A whisper of who I was.
I sit at my vanity, a small white one from my childhood, painted in fading pastels. I used to sit here and pretend I was a princess. Pretend Prince Charming would rescue me from this world and that I’d wear glass slippers and command a court of talking mice. I knew, even back then, it was just pretend. Because I was already a princess. A Bratva princess. And there are no Prince Charmings in our world.
I’ve seen too much to believe in fairy tales.
Once in a while, you see a family that genuinely loves each other. A couple that thrives on real affection. But that only works if they live by a code entirely their own.
That’s not my fate. I’ve already met the one man who could’ve loved me like that… or so I thought.
And now? I’ve seen my future fiancé twice. The first time, he arrived with an entourage—wealthy, slick, polished. He looked more like a model on the cover of a finance magazine than a man about to be married.
He’s rich, no doubt about that. I’ll have everything I could possibly want—except, of course, the only thing I really need.
He came with sleek, black SUVs, the kind that scream power and protection. But I didn’t show how impressed I was. And that pissed him off. He scowled at me, clearly expecting me to swoon.
Not happening. That’s not who I am.
The second visit, he took me to a restaurant so exclusive he rented out the entire first floor. Some people might’ve been flattered. I wasn’t. He treated the servers like dirt.Sent his steak back three times. Complained about the air quality.
Who does that?
And my brothers are marrying me off to him.
He’s not hideous. He’s actually pretty attractive. Strong, tall, fit, I guess. But he barely looks at me. His voice is nasally, and he never shuts up about finance and politics. It’s exhausting.
