“You’re to be downstairs in half an hour, madam. You and Master Isaak will be dining out of the manor tonight.”
My blood curdles at once. “Is that so?” I drawl.
Edith hurries to open the door to my bedroom for me. I step inside and kick off my flip-flops, but my eyes go straight to the beautiful jade green evening dress that’s been laid out on my bed.
“Master Isaak picked it out for you himself,” Edith comments before I can even ask.
“Did he now?” I’m entirely unimpressed by his arrogance, if not his taste in clothes. “Well, it’s actually rather pretty. But I won’t be wearing that tonight.”
Edith blinks in confusion. “Ma’am?”
“Don’t worry,” I say dismissively. “I’ll be down at the appointed hour. We wouldn’t want to keep Master Isaak waiting, now would we?”
She flinches at my biting tone and looks nervously at the dress on the bed. I get the feeling she’s not much of one for conflict.
“If you don’t mind, could I ask what else you had in mind?” she says politely.
“First of all, the ‘ma’am’ has gotta go,” I say gently. “Just Camila is plenty. Or Cami. Whichever you prefer. And second of all, I’m perfectly comfortable in what I’ve got on right now.”
Her eyes flit over my jeans and t-shirt combo and she pales. “You… you’re wearing that for dinner tonight?”
“I am.”
“But—”
“Thanks for your help, Edith,” I say firmly. “You’re off the hook for today.” I give her a wink and a pat on the forearm. “Don’t worry. I can handle him.”
She looks pale, shaky, and rather skeptical as she leaves my room. I don’t like putting a sweetheart like her in an awkward position. But I’ll be damned if I let Isaak fucking Vorobev turn me into his little china doll.
This is my first step towards taking control of the situation.
Smiling to myself, I use the bathroom and then plant myself in front of the mirror. I wash my face with cold water and towel it dry.
Then I do absolutely nothing else.
I don’t even bother running a brush through my hair. I just keep it lying loose around my shoulders and head back into the bedroom. The fuzzy flip-flops will do nicely, I decide.
I step out. There’s a huge mirror hanging at the end of the hallway. I stop and peruse my appearance for a second.
Ripped to pieces blue mom jeans? Check.
Pink flip-flops that look like I taxidermized the Energizer Bunny? Check.
Hair like I just did a backflip in a wind tunnel, not a speck of make-up on my face, and a very carefully crafted “Isaac Vorobev, eat your heart out” gleam in my eyes? Check, check, and check.
“Dinner time,” I say to my reflection with a wicked grin. “Hope you’re ready for me.”
14
Camila
He’s waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase.
I have to try very hard to control my expression, because Jesus Christ—he looks like Adonis in a suit. The dark blue suit coat seems to make his broad shoulders even broader. The crisp white shirt he’s wearing underneath is open at the collar, with two buttons undone to show a smattering of dark chest hair and the creeping tendril of a tattoo.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Isaak asks. “I believe I chose a dress specifically for the occasion.”
The navy suit gives the intensity of his stare an extra lift. Not that he needed it.
“As a matter of fact, it is,” I say cheerily. “I’m all set for dinner. What’s on the menu?”
I’m ready for a fight. A tug-of-war. At the very least, for him to send me back to my room like a scolded child.
In the end, though, I’m disappointed. Isaak just shrugs and holds the door open for me.
“After you.”
Feeling slightly deflated, I walk down to the silver, convertible soft-top coupe parked at the end of the gravel pathway.
He opens the passenger door and usher me in. I climb into the seat without a word. It takes all my willpower not to let out a quiet little sigh when I sink into the buttery soft leather.
Isaak slams my door shut, strides around the front of the car, and climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Ready? Good.”
Then he floors it.
We shoot out of the compound like a cannonball. I suppress a scream, although I’m not ashamed to white-knuckle the armrests and pray a little bit to every god I’ve ever heard of.
We rip through the streets, tires squealing at every turn. When he whips one turn especially hard, I yell over the roar of the engine, “You’re gonna get a ticket!”
“I don’t get tickets,” he says coolly. Somehow, he manages to speak at a normal volume and still have his voice cut through the cacophony.
“Because you kill the cops who try?”
“Because they can’t catch me.”
Then he shifts gears, we merge onto the highway, and I realize with a nauseous jolt that the speed we were traveling at before was him being cautious.
This is him being reckless.
Other cars dive out of the way as we tear down the road. I’m pressed back into my seat with the force of the acceleration and my thighs are tingling from the car’s vibrations.
Isaak, on the other hand, looks cool as could be. He steers with one hand, switching gears with the other.
I just close my eyes and wait for the roller coaster to end.
It happens sooner than I expected. One moment, we’re screeching through traffic like a bat out of hell. The next, brakes grind and we pull to a sudden stop outside of a restaurant.
My jaw promptly drops.
I recognize the name. Situated right on the banks of the Thames, this restaurant is one of the most exclusive, most expensive, and most beautiful in the entire continent.
The waitlist for reservations is up to ten months long. A woman could make a reservation, get pregnant, and have her baby before she’d get to sit at one of their tables.
I’m still processing the whiplash arrival when I see the valet approaching my door to help me out. I swear I notice a flash of surprise cross his face when he sees my attire through the car window.
Probably because he, the other valets, the hosts, and every other staff member else I can see is dressed in immaculate suits and ties.
Suddenly, my little rebellion loses all its steam.
“Something wrong?” Isaak asks innocently as he looks over at me.
I rearrange my face instantly. “Nothing at all.”
Another valet steps to Isaak’s door. Isaak rolls the window down, hands over an absurdly thick roll of bills, and says, “I’ll park it myself.” Then he floors the gas again and we go screeching into an empty spot in a shadowy corner.
Once we’re stationary, he turns to me. “Still feeling confident in your choice of outfit?”
I narrow my eyes, feeling adrenaline surge through my body. “You mean they’ll refuse to serve white trash like me?”
“Of course they won’t,” he replies. “You’re with me.”
“Well, then, do we have a problem?”
“Actually, we do,” he says. His tone is calm. Eerily calm. I’m starting to feel a little uneasy. “I sent up a dress for you.”
“I wasn’t in the mood to wear it,” I bite back. “I’m not usually in the mood to be dressed up like a doll. Never, actually.”