Page 5 of Kneeling for Daddy
We ride in silence, the elevator lined with polished mirrors that catch my reflection from every angle. I look collected, but my jaw is clenched and my nerves are a mess. Alek’s eyes are on the numbers above the door, bored as ever, and impatiently tapping his foot with every floor we pass. When we reach the top floor, the elevator doors slide open. The short hallway is carpeted with a plush royal-blue-and-gold pattern, silencing the pad of our heavy footsteps.
Alek unlocks a set of double doors and swings them open, revealing the penthouse. It’s ridiculous. Large windows frame the skyline, the moonlight dancing over the surroundingbuildings. Crystal decanters line the bar, and everything—from the sleek furniture to the artwork adorning the walls—screams money and taste. My twin heads straight for the bar, pours himself a glass of vodka over ice, and sits in one of the plush chairs facing the windows. I drop onto the couch opposite him with an exasperated sigh, crossing my arms.
“Nice of you to ask if I wanted anything,” I sass, my voice sharp.
“Ugh. What do you want?” He sets his glass on the coffee table between us, already pushing to his feet as if fetching me something is an unbearable chore.
I smirk. “Nothing. But it would’ve been nice of you to ask.”
Alek rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. He drops back into his chair, throwing one arm over the backrest and grabbing his drink with the other. “I’m so happy your bratty ass isn’t going to be my problem anymore.”
My brows shoot up. “What the hell does that mean?”
He swirls his vodka, watching the ice cubes shift before meeting my gaze. “It means you’re getting married.”
For a moment, I laugh—actually laugh—because that’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Then I see his face. He’s fucking serious.
“Oh, you’ve lost your fucking mind,” I snap, sitting forward. “The hell I am.”
“Maybe. But you’re marrying Nikolai Romanov,” Alek deadpans, like he’s telling me tomorrow’s weather. “One of the Kings of New York.”
I stare at him. “You meantheNikolai Romanov? The one people call a sociopath? The one who—” I cut myself off before I start listing every violent rumor I’ve ever heard about the man. My heart thuds harder. The notion is abhorrent.
“I’m in charge of this family now,” Alek barks, his voice suddenly sharp and reminiscent of Father’s. “And its damned time you did something more than shopping, sleeping, and being an outright pain in everyone’s ass. You need to do your part.”
“Mypart? My part isn’t getting sold off to some mafia psycho for—what? Political convenience?”
“It’s not political. It’s survival. Merging our families strengthens us both. The Kings are powerful. We need that if we’re going to get out of the mess Father made. Especially if you want to keep living this lavish lifestyle.” His eyes quickly run over my Valentino dress and Louboutin shoes before gesturing at the lavish hotel room.
I push up from the couch, pacing to the windows. The skyline stretches endlessly, mocking me with its freedom. “You can’t just decide this for me.”
“I can. And I have.”
We argue about the arrangement for hours.
I shout. He shouts louder.
He throws responsibilities in my face, and I throw his hypocrisy and misogyny in his.
But Alek is like stone—unyielding and immovable. Every point I make bounces off him like I’m firing blanks.
Finally, the fight drains from me, replaced by a cold, simmering fury when he threatens to cut me off financially if I don’t obey him. I drop back onto the couch, crossing my arms so tightly my nails dig into my skin. “Fine,” I spit. “I’ll do it. But don’t expect me to smile while you’re shackling me to him. ”
“Good. You’ll thank me someday.” Alek smirks, thinking he’s won.
He hasn’t. And I won’t.
Because I already know my plan.
I’m going to make Nikolai Romanov so fucking miserable—so utterly regretful of ever agreeing to this—that I’ll be surprised if he isn’t sending me back to Armenia himself within the month.
Morning sunlight spills through the windows, casting shadows and beams of light over the hardwood floors of Cillian’s penthouse. I’m halfway through my first coffee when his phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at it, and his thumb skims across the screen before he pushes it toward me. “From Alek.”
I catch it before it slides off the edge and read the open message.
Meeting. 10 a.m. at the Blackbird Café. Don’t be late.
Blackbird. I’ve been there once before. Neutral ground in Midtown. It’s a small, discreet café. Quaint, but usually bustling with regulars. It will be just loud enough with brunch chatter to keep anyone from eavesdropping without effort. Grunting, I toss the phone back to him. “I’m so fucking excited I can hardly contain myself. I still don’t believe this is really happening.”
