Page 80 of I'm sorry, Princess
I could deny her, but what would be the point? She’s efficient, predictable, and knows her role well enough.
“You’re coming with me,” I reply, finally lifting my head from my phone to meet her gaze. “Anything else?”
I don’t have time for this.
“That would be all,” she says, her voice smooth, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 8 p.m. Also, I’m leaving early today, for shopping.”
She turns to leave, her heels clicking on the floor, but I don’t respond to her little comment. She can shop for whatever she wants as long as she shows up on time and doesn’t annoy me.
My attention shifts as my phone buzzes in my hand. Kirill.
“Moretti,” I answer coldly.
“Meet me at Cursed in 30 minutes,” he says, his tone flat, no room for argument.
“Right.” I hang up.
I leave the office, heading straight to the car. The moment I step outside, I see Andres waiting for me.
Kirill called him too. Interesting.
Andres greets me with a brotherly hug, his hand gripping my shoulder firmly.
“How are you doing, man?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with concern.
I know what he’s really asking.
He wants to know how I feel about what we’ve discovered, about my father, the Attorney General, and the tangled mess we’re starting to unravel.
But I don’t feel.
Not the way he expects.
The fire in my chest isn’t grief or confusion, it’s rage. Controlled, calculated rage.
“I’m good. Tired,” I say flatly. Not a lie. I haven’t slept all night, my mind spinning with too many unanswered questions and the weight of what’s coming.
Andres nods but doesn’t push further. He knows better.
We get into his car and drive to Cursed. The club, of course, is open, it’s Friday night. The music vibrates through the walls as we head straight to the business suite.
Lev is already there.
Of course, he is.
And, as usual, he’s wasted.
There’s a line of coke on the table, and Lev is sprawled across the couch, barely acknowledging us as we walk in. He blinks at us for a moment, his glassy eyes struggling to focus, and then, without a word, he takes another line.
I sit down next to him, and Andres settles into the seat beside me.
“What the fuck are you doing, Lev?” I snap, my patience already thin. “There’s no time for us to call an ambulance because you overdosed during our meeting. Put that shit down.”
He looks at me, annoyed, his expression oozing disgust, like a teenager being scolded by a parent.
Without a word, he throws his legs up onto the table, crosses them like he owns the world, and pulls out his phone to start texting.
Fucking Lev. A 27-year-old billionaire who acts like a rebellious teenager with too much access to money and drugs.
