Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

3. Zoya

3

ZOYA

M y mother’s scowl is hotter than the overdoor heating installed to warm up her guests enough they’ll dodge the hypothermia her frozen heart lures. It’s meant to reduce the likelihood of an illness from a high probability to a slight possibility. With her narrowed eyes bolstering the unnatural setting, there’s no chance I’ll leave our meeting with frozen digits today.

Even more so since my blood is still thick with lust.

I was disappointed when Dr. Hemway interrupted my exchange with Andrik, though in a way, I was also relieved. I’ve always said you can tell a man by his suit. Andrik’s suit screamed trouble, yet I seemed more frustrated than thankful when he failed to follow my exit from Dr. Hemway’s office.

My mother’s nasally snarl steals me from my uncalled thoughts. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up.” Unlike Andrik, her voice is a mix of accents. The most notable is American, though an array of European nations also feature.

When she spins on her heel and walks away, neither inviting me inside her home nor demanding my removal, her now head maid, who has served her in various roles over the past almost three decades, sees it as a wordless acknowledgment that I’ve been granted five minutes of her time.

After handing Stasy, my once nanny, my coat, I trek through my mother’s mega-mansion until I find her in the den, serving herself a generous nip of gin.

Shock hardens my features when she tilts the bottle my way in silent offering.

I thought hell would freeze over before she would ever treat me amicably.

When I shake my head, she pffts me. “It’s not like the occasional treat will cause more harm to your insides.”

Her sneered comment hurts, and although I didn’t come here to argue about my inability to give her endless grandchildren, I can’t help but remind her that endometriosis is a genetic condition. “That means I must have gotten it from you or a direct ancestor of yours.”

Her huff pierces my ears, reminding me I’ll be long buried before she will ever take the blame for any part of my infertility woes. “You now have four minutes. Make the most of them since they’ll likely be your last. Thirty and unmarried is no cause for celebration.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” I remind her when her glare announces my unmarried status is the reason for her final sneered comment. “And single by choice.”

She huffs like she doesn’t believe me before checking her watch, hopeful four minutes have whizzed by in a second.

Since she is as unfair as she is unmotherly, I get to the point of my visit. “Aleena?—”

“Is enjoying her birthday with her friends.” A flare I don’t recognize darts through her eyes. It is doused as quickly as her courtesy. “I’ll be sure to tell her you stopped by to offer your felicitations.” When she waves her hand through the air, Stasy appears out of nowhere. “Please show Ms. Galdean the way out.” She growls out the last name I chose when she forced me to change my name so my infertility wouldn’t stain her “good family name.”

It isn’t Stasy’s fault my hackles are raised, but I can’t help but yank out of her hold when she gently grips my elbow and guides me toward the exit.

“Aleena isn’t a child anymore. She will soon realize that this”—I wave my hand around the home that will forever be colder than grand—“isn’t the norm. We live in the twenty-first century, where girls aren’t raised solely to be wives and mothers. They can be anything they want to be. Nikita is a doctor, a fucking good one. And?—”

“She is lonely, sad, and depressed. That is not someone you should be looking up to, Zoya.” She brushes off her skirt like my spat words dotted the decadent material with more than spit. “God forbid we will have a replica of her mother running around. That woman was nothing but trouble.”

“How was she trouble? Unlike you, she loved her daughters and her husband. She would have done anything to ensure their happiness.”

Her stare turns steely as she glares at me like she hates me. It hurts as much now as it did when I was a child who could never do anything right, but since my confidence is boosted from my flirty exchange with Andrik, the scold won’t be permanently disfiguring.

I take a moment to recall the purpose of my first invitation inside her home in three years before saying more respectfully, “I would like to see Aleena. She is my sister, and I want to be a part of her life.”

My mother’s pause for contemplation pinnacles my hope that there’s only one way for it to go when she responds with the same snarky tone she always used when I was a child. “Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can have it.” She steps closer, hovering over me and reminding me I didn’t get my short height from her. “As you said previously, Aleena is now an adult. Who she invites into her life is her choice. I can’t force her to let you in, Zoya.”

“I’m not asking you to force her. I just want you to step back and let her decide.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing the past several years?” Intervening , I attempt to reply, but she continues talking, stealing my chance. “I’ve asked Aleena numerous times if she would like me to initiate contact with you. She always answers the same way.” Her following words cut deeper than her vicious smirk. “She has no interest in befriending the person who stole her first real boyfriend.”

She could only shock me more if she slapped me in the face. “I offered Bayli a ride home after you kicked him out. I didn’t steal him.”

“That’s not how Aleena sees it.”

“Because she has you muttering in her ear. You always pit us against each other. You want us to hate each other because, for some stupid reason, you blame us for your inability to keep your legs closed anytime our father came sniffing around.”

I lied earlier. I see her slap coming from a mile out, and I’m still shocked by it. It rockets my head to the side and leaves a nasty red imprint on my cheek.

There’s no remorse in her eyes when I return my head front and center. No pleas for forgiveness. She looks like a cat staring at an empty bird aviary because she knows I won’t fight.

If I fight, I’ll lose Aleena entirely. The sporadic contact I get every now and again is nothing spectacular, but it is better than having no contact at all.

“Tell Aleena I was here.” With my tone more angst riddled than I am aiming for, I tack on a quick, “Please,” before I farewell my mother with a dip of my chin and shadow Stasy out of the den.

Once I am confident we’re without prying eyes, I pull out the birthday card I had hoped to hand deliver and slowly veer it toward Stasy. It’s plumped out with a handful of the letters that were returned to my apartment unopened and unread over the past year.

“No, Ms. Zoya. Please don’t make me.” Her English is broken, but I have no trouble understanding the pure agony in her tone. “Mrs. Sakharoff be mad. She won’t forgive.” She pushes the card back my way. “I no do it. I want no trouble.”

“But…” I hate myself for pushing. The worry in her beautifully unique eyes reveals that every word she speaks is true. Her fret is very much warranted, and I hate it even more than how quickly I backtrack on the sole purpose of my visit to Chelabini. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Her relieved sigh hits the back of my neck as she assists me into my coat. Once it covers my shoulders, hanging lower than they were minutes ago, she spins me around to help pull my hair from the collar.

“It’s okay. Leave it. I don’t need to impress anyone.” My low words expose my confrontation with my mother hurt me more than I will ever admit.

I could beg that woman to love me. I could fall to my knees and promise a loyalty she would never be able to replicate, and she would still turn me away.

That’s how much she hates me.

“Goodbye, Stasy.”

An icy breeze cools my mother’s handprint for half a second before a warm hand curls around my elbow to tug me back into the overheated foyer.

I peer at Stasy with my brows stitched when she hands me a business card for a local hotel. I’m not looking forward to the three-hour drive home. Beggars can’t be choosers, however. I can’t afford a dingy motel on the outskirts of town, let alone one with business cards with elegant gold-embossed font.

My eyes shoot up to Stasy when she says, “You should stop in for tea. Медови?к best in the country.” My heart beats double-time when a rare smile raises her cheeks. “Source very reliable. She knows her cakes.”

Aleena is obsessed with the creamy honey cake our mother would only let us eat on special occasions. She was adamant the repercussions of a regular sugary treat would make us more undesirable than a possible infertility issue.

The last time I had a slice of mедови?к was on my thirteenth birthday. I saw it on the table at Aleena’s sixteenth and eighteenth birthday parties. I was removed from the festivities before I could pass on any verbal well-wishes to the birthday girl, much less sample her favorite cake.

At her sixteenth, I was tossed out with a man I discovered was Aleena’s first official boyfriend. During the twenty-minute drive to Bayli’s home, I learned that he and Aleena had been dating secretly for six months. Aleena had hoped introducing Bayli to our mother during her birthday celebration would force her to take the news of their union with more acceptance.

If Aleena had told me about her plan, I would have suggested that she continue keeping her relationship status a secret.

For the short time I was with Bayli, he seemed like a typical high school jock. He was also polite, well-spoken, and on course for an above-average GPA.

He merely lived four miles in the wrong direction.

Middle class is not good enough for a Sakharoff. Upper class barely makes the cut. If your family’s bank accounts are below eight figures, you will never be invited into my mother’s tight inner circle.

I’m drawn from my thoughts when Stasy taps her finger on the business card now trembling in my hand. “Go here. Have cake with the birthday girl. Smile.”

I nod. “I will.”

Any type of affection is frowned upon in my family, but before I can consider the consequences of my actions, I throw my arms around Stasy’s neck and hug her fiercely. I melt when she hugs me back.

After an embrace warm enough to restart my frozen heart, I murmur, “Thank you.”

I race out of the cold and sterile mansion I’ll never call home before Stasy or my mother can see the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.