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My eyes snap to Mr. Petrov across from me. His tone is kind, almost concerned, though his eyes are level and questioning. He’s a handsome man, not much older than me, in fact, with dark hair and eyes, a well-manicured beard, short, and always soft to the touch. All of his hair shines in the overhead lights and sunlight from the unshuttered windows. Not in a greasy way, like I’ve seen other men at the club who slather themselves with products, but a natural shine that shows his pedigree.
He’s well nourished. Hydrated.
He leans forward and places his hand on top of mine, gently. His gaze is imploring. “I swear, everything will be all right. Nothing to worry about here.”
My eyelids flutter as I struggle to take in a breath, finally able to feel my racing heart pounding inside my chest. My voice is strangled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Petrov—”
“Mikhail, please.” His voice is smooth, gentle. “We are, after all, betrothed.”
The grin that spreads across his face is conspiratorial, and I can’t hold back a nervous laugh. “Of course. Mikhail. Darling.”
The wattage of his smile increases ten-fold at the extra sing-song tone in my voice as he leans back in his seat. “We will be at cruising altitude in no time, and then it’s all smooth sailing—er, flying—from then on.” His ankle comes up to rest on his opposite knee, his dress shoes just as shiny as his dark hair.
Always stylish, Petrov wears pressed black slacks with a black leather belt holding the bottom of his white button-down shirt tucked into his waistband. The top few buttons are undone, showing off part of his defined chest that I’ve seen countless times, the silhouette of his dark tattoo showing through the material, no undershirt between his skin and the expensive fabric.
He’d gifted me a navy blue pencil dress so I’d look the part of his fiancee upon landing in New York. I would have preferred something lounge-worthy to fly in, but I do have to say that the dress is quite comfortable and doesn’t really hinder my movement much.
It’s interesting to see how the upper one-percent live.
“Now, when we land, we’ll check into our room. If you’d like to rest for a few hours, you’ll have time. Otherwise, we can walk through the city for a while until your appointment with the stylist I’ve booked.”
My head bobs as I try to concentrate on what he’s saying. “Okay. And… the ball is a masquerade?”
He smiles again, looking pleased that I’ve remembered. “Indeed. I look forward to the festivities.”
I swallow. “And I’m supposed to be a trust-fund baby?”
Petrov laughs, one loud ha! “Let’s call you a socialite. An Omega of wealthy descent. My family has known yours for years and arranged for our courtship.”
“I keep my name?”
He hums in the affirmative, a small glint in his eye. “It’s easier than trying to create an entirely false persona.” His head tilts as he regards me. “I don’t anticipate you having to speak with many people outside of my presence, so lean on me whenever you need.” He blinks once, looks around the empty cabin of his private jet, unfastens his seat belt then rises to his feet, circling his seat where he crouches out of view momentarily. When he returns, he has something small in his hand which he passes to me once he sits back down.
A black box. I watch enough TV to know it’s jewelry before I open it, but the giant glistening rock that greets me inside has my jaw nearly unhinged when I gape at his laughing face.
“Please do take care with that.”
My mouth closes and opens several times before I stare down at the fortune in my grasp. Square, angled cuts on top, set in what can only be platinum. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Not even on TV.
“It’s real,” he offers, as though that either makes things better or will calm my nerves.
It doesn’t.
“Anyone at this party would spot a fake immediately.”
Oh. I guess that makes sense.
I hold the box in my fingertips, keeping it a forearm’s length in disbelief.
His chuckle catches my attention a moment before he’s on his knees in front of me, chest to my shins, and reaches for the box. When he pulls the ring from its holder, he tosses the empty box behind him onto his seat, like it’s trash, and takes my left hand in his before sliding the gargantuan bling onto my finger. It slides home effortlessly, like it was made for me.
And, I guess it was. Considering.
Mama’s voice echoes in my head from this morning.
“Do not fuck this up, Sin. If you do… if you even think about not coming back here…” The look on her face was pure, unadulterated evil, and she reveled in it before flinging a Polaroid onto her desk in front of me. Bile rose in my throat as my vision swam at the sight.
Tasha, bruised and bloodied, bound in contrast with delicately tied ropes suspending her in the air. One of her eyes was swollen so badly, I didn’t know if it was still in the socket. Slashes I recognized from whips were on every inch of her body, as well as gashes I can only assume were made by blades. Her face was wet with tears, sweat, and snot.
