“Lies.” He shook his head, his lips still exploring mine. “You are and always will be beautiful.”
My heart soared. He kissed me again, lacing his fingers through mine from both sides. It was still awkward, but I shoved the feeling of self-consciousness aside. The euphoria of being kissed nearly made me nauseous. It wasn’t the sensation that I liked but the fact I was experiencing it with him. The knowledge of how much he was risking for me set my soul aflame. There was an ache in my chest that unfurled like a small piece of paper. Expanding and expanding with each second that passed.
“Get your dirty hands off my daughter!”
The next few things happened fast. One second, Nicky’s body was pressed against mine, and the next, he was on the floor, huddled in a nest of thick, hardcover books, my father’s figure crouching above him, fisting the collar of his shirt.
There was a thwack—the sound of skin slapping skin. My vision blurred around the edges.
“I should’ve known . . . you little shi—”
I didn’t let Dad finish the sentence. I launched myself at him, yanking him away from Nicky by the arm. “Daddy! Please!”
“—will ruin your life.” Dad dragged him upright from the floor now by his collar, smashing Nicholai’s back against the shelves. More books rained on both of them, but neither of them paid attention. Dad’s face was red, almost purple, while Nicky looked defiant, his expression passive. He didn’t try to deny or explain what had happened. Didn’t chicken out. He was going to see this one through, the way he had everything else in his life.
Another jab sent Nicky’s face flying, and this time, by the crack, I knew my father had broken his nose.
Ruslana blasted through the library door holding a broomstick. I tried jumping between Dad and Nicky, prying Dad’s fingers from his throat. I was confused, upset, and sick to my stomach. I’d never seen my father being violent. He’d always been gentle and loving with me, making up for all the things my mother wasn’t.
“What’s happening here?” Ruslana shrieked. When she saw her son’s purple face staring back at my dad, she jumped between them, poking Dad away with the broom in her hands.
“Off! Get off him!” she roared. “You’ll kill him, and then I’ll be the one who needs to answer the authorities.”
This was what she cared about right now? Really?
“Your filthy, stupid son touched my Arya. I got back home early to grab a new tie before the fundraiser and . . .”
“Mercy!” Ruslana cried, turning to her son, who was nothing but a heap of jumbled limbs, blood, and swollen flesh in that moment. “Is this true? I told you not to touch her!”
Nicky jerked his chin up boldly.
“Say something!” she demanded.
Nicky turned to my father, smiling. His gums were bleeding. “She tasted good, sir.”
My father slapped him with the back of his hand, using his fraternity ring to draw more blood. Nicky’s face flew to the other side. His cheek banged against the shelf. This was all on me. My fault. I wanted to do so many things.
To tell him I was sorry.
To say I hadn’t known Dad would come.
To help him out.
To explain everything to Dad, to Ruslana. I needed to salvage this. To protect him.
But the words got stuck in my throat. Like a ball of puke, blocking my air pipes. My mouth fell open, but nothing came out.
It’s not his fault.
“Go to your room, Arya,” my father snarled, marching to the open door and tilting his head in the hallway’s direction. I didn’t move at first. “Go, God dammit!”
And then I thought about how my life would change if Dad decided to be like Mom. To neglect me, look the other way, treat me like I was another piece of furniture.
Shockingly—disgracefully—I moved, my legs heavy as lead.
I could still feel Nicholai’s eyes on my back. The heat of the betrayal. The burn of knowing I would never be forgiven.
That things would never be the same again.
That I’d lost my best friend.
CHAPTER NINE
CHRISTIAN
Present
I’d recognized her instantly.
The swanlike neck. The ethereal Ava Gardner gaze and feline green eyes. Arya wore every passing year with grace and elegance. At thirteen, she’d been pretty. At thirty-one—a real knockout. Even her innocent halo, the sense of something wholesome and unreachable, was cracked but still intact. She glowed from miles away, and I wanted to douse her magnificence. Dim her light and drag her to the shadows with me.
When I spotted her at the building’s reception, I couldn’t believe my luck. She’d decided to tag along and get a front seat to her father’s downfall. I had no idea what she was doing there. My immediate response was to talk to her. To see if she, too, recognized me. If I’d ever mattered. Or if I’d just been the help, who’d stolen her first kiss and paid for it with interest.
She had no idea who I was. No surprises there. I’d always been a blip in her world. An unimportant anecdote. The need to punish her, to show her this new version of me could not be overlooked or tucked away in an establishment no one could see or reach, slammed into me. I hadn’t been able to stop myself.
Not from dropping profanity in the middle of a mediation meeting like a D-grade rapper.
Not from rejecting any defrayal offered, including a mouthwatering eight-figure deal.
Not from drinking in her face thirstily. Like I was still the same fourteen-year-old boy with a stiffie, vying for crumbs of her attention, consuming her in any shape or form she’d throw my way.
I took a swig of my whiskey, watching the Manhattan skyline from my Park Avenue apartment. It was a one-bedroom, but it was all mine, fully paid. I’d always preferred quality over quantity.
“Are you coming to bed?” Claire asked behind me. I could see her reflection in the glass of my floor-to-ceiling window, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, wearing nothing but my white dress shirt, her bare legs on full display.
“In a minute.”