Page 10 of Sold to the Bratva
“I know.”
She tilts her head curiously. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because I’m going to make his life hell.” I grin.
Evie laughs again, but sympathy lingers behind the sound. “You really think that’ll be enough?” she asks, doubt thick in her voice. The apprehension on her face isn’t just about my plan, it’s about me.
“I can be annoying enough when I want to be. I’ll make myself so impossible to live with, he’ll be begging to return me by day three.”
Evie stirs her straw through her drink, watching me carefully. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he plays along? What if he likes the fire?”
“I’ll throw gasoline on it,” I shoot back. “I’ll go nuclear.”
She bites back a smile. “And if that doesn’t scare him off either?”
I hesitate.
That’s the real fear, isn’t it? It’s been stalking me since the moment we met. I’m not afraid he’ll walk away, I’m terrified he won’t. That I’ll burn and he’ll savor the flames. I shake the thought loose.
“He’ll hate me, Evie. I’ll give him whiplash, cold, distant, rude. I’ll redecorate his mansion in pink tulle and fake roses. I’ll force his men to go gluten-free, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll drag them all into a vegan diet.”
Evie snorts into her drink. “Oh no. Not vegan,” she teases.
“Watch me. I’ll host a dinner party where everything is free of carbs, meat, dairy, and joy.”
She presses a hand to her heart. “Ruthless.”
“That’s what I’m known for.”
“Actually, you’re known for art, caffeine addictions, and choosing the worst dates in all of Manhattan.”
“What dates?” I gesture wildly around the bar. “I’m not allowed to date! I’m not allowed to have any fun. That’s the whole point!”
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s not pretend you’re as pure as your daddy thinks you are.”
We laugh, and for a moment the future, the man poised to ruin it, fades. But expectation sits heavy on my shoulders, waiting to shove me back to reality.
Then Evie sets her drink down and leans closer. Her voice is quieter now. “When do you move in?”
“Tomorrow,” I exhale, mourning how fast reality crashes back in.
Her brows pull together. “Already?”
“Papa’s orders. He wants us to ‘build rapport’ before the wedding.”
“Rapport?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.
“His word, not mine.”
Evie’s expression darkens. “He really won’t let you say no?”
“No,” I whisper. “He won’t.”
A heavy silence settles over the table.
Evie picks at the edge of her napkin.
“You don’t have to go,” she whispers conspiratorially. “We could run away.”
