Page 21 of Hate to Love You

Once a month, he and his mother would go clothes shopping while I remained at home. Being the girl with no family and not a dime to my name meant I wasn’t trusted to dress myself. They picked everything, down to my underwear.

And if I was caught wearing something that wasn’t on the approved Abigail’s List, then I would pay the price.

When our marriage was finally dissolved after his death, I sold it all. The penthouse, the car, furniture, and then went to the mall and bought anything and everything that struck my fancy. Short skirts, tights, booty shorts, crop tops. The works.

With each swipe of the card, I felt my power coming back to me, each ding of the register stitching my soul together.

Retail therapy really is the answer to everything.

My husband would roll over in his grave if he knew the amount I’d spent, as well as every single piece of fabric that showed a centimeter of my skin.

Well, he would if he had a grave.

I cremated the bastard and then threw his ashes in the trash behind a fast-food joint just ten minutes from the crematorium.

Smiling to myself I grab my laptop.

It’s time to find out who Igor Ivanov really is.

The computer hits the floor with a thump, my blood heating in my veins as my teeth grind together.Rubbing my hands over my eyes, I lean back in my chair as I take in a slow and deliberate breath, trying to calm the throbbing in my temple.

I couldn’t find anything personal about Igor online.

Like…nothing.

Leah had said Igor had money and was well connected, but there’s no social accounts, no business website, and no personal information in the public record about him.

It was intriguingly infuriating.

I’ve never had an issue finding someone online before, especially in this generation that practically lives on their phones. Nowadays, idiots document their entire life, even snapping pictures of food, something that I personally find to be absurd. We live in a day and age where we’re more focused on capturing things on camera, than actually living it. We’re simply watching life through a screen or documenting it for a like count.

But Igor Ivanov was practically an online ghost.

Minus the high-profile reports on his business practices at Nikotech Investments, which told me where he worked, I only found him tagged in a few social media posts. This told me what circles he ran with, but his lack of personal social media was strange for someone of his status. The only thing I’m able to confirm is that he’s married, with a mistress that he keeps locked up when the wife is home.

That, and the fact that he, like every red-blooded male with a small dick complex, spends a lot of time at The Studio.

The Studio is the most popular club within New York City. It’s expensive, exclusive, and requires men to have a membership to attend, stroking the egos of every man in there.

Women however don’t need a membership, just a pretty face, and a lot of skin on show.

I haven’t been to the club since putting down the trust fund baby a few weeks back.

John Bishop was a monster that forced himself on his victim. He never told her he was married, and when she found out she tried to do the right thing and leave… but he didn’t let her.

She was his prisoner.

…But I was her savior.

I remember his death vividly. I studied him for weeks.

A preppy man child with mommy issues and a drug problem. He was the easiest kill for me, predictable, open, and down to party hard, after the weekly family dinner of course.

I’d placed a tracker on his car and followed him around. He never stayed in his own place and was always warming someone else’s bed, while his wife was at home, feeding their baby.

I did wonder, however, if the wife knew what he was doing, and who he was. Did she turn a blind eye to it, or was she receiving the same treatment as his bed warmers?

The only routine stop John made was to his parents’ mansion on the edge of the city, for his family dinner. On the outside, he looked like a good son attending a cozy get-together. But a cozy get together wouldn’t include the best PR fixer in New York, likely hired to cover up his multiple transgressions.

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