Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
The door bursts open. “What the hell?”
“You don’t have time to work out. Manuel will be busy today, so you need to be downstairs early if you want to bake,” my father says, holding on to the door handle and leaning in.
“Oh, okay.” He closes the door without a “Happy Birthday” because my parents haven’t celebrated my birthday since I was a kid. Today wouldn’t be any different. Life for them is just too important, and I’m not special enough. My brothers are their priority, and I’m their disappointment. I put away my mat and run into the shower.
At least today I get to bake my own birthday cake with my favorite person in the entire house—Manuel, our chef. He and I have been cooking and baking together since I was a kid. It’s the highlight of my day and the only reason I haven’t run away yet. Okay—there are more reasons, like my father’s a fucking psycho murderer and has men everywhere, and the other big issue: I don’t have anywhere to go. Still, I like to believe that Manuel is a big reason I stay.
I dress quickly, sliding on a cute pink dress, and then throw my hair up in a bun, putting pins in so my long black hair doesn’t fall loose. Then I’m out of my room, only to nearly collide with a very large man. He looks handsome and extremely dangerous. I’m a little scared of him and scoot around his large frame. “Sorry,” I mutter, but I don’t actually glance at him as I say it. My father must have gotten another guard in the house because we don’t have any guests staying with us.
Instead, I move quickly down the stairs until my mother scolds me. “Walk, young lady. We didn’t raise a heathen.”
“No, just thugs,” I mutter under my breath. The man behind me chuckles, but I just keep moving because I’m not allowed to speak to my father’s associates, and they’re not to interact with me unless necessary.
“Don’t mutter under your breath. Manuel is waiting for you, so get started, young lady.”
“Yes, Mother Dearest.” I smile sweetly, skipping into the kitchen, letting her think that’s an endearment. My mother has never seen that movie or learned the meaning of the phrase. If she did, I’d probably be in trouble.
Bursting through the kitchen door, I greet my favorite person with a cheerful, “Good morning.”
“Feliz cumpleaños, Muñeca.” Manuel pulls me into his arms for a big hug after wishing me a happy birthday. He’s been calling me a doll since I was little.
“Thank you, Manuel,” I say, giggling as we break apart.
“You seem so happy today. Have you spoken to your parents yet?” His brow lifts with a bit of curiosity.
“Not more than a sentence or two each, so it’s a good morning. Shall we bake before they demand that I be weighed?” I roll my eyes, and so does he.
He nods. “Yes, we better get on with it.”
We begin measuring ingredients in a massive mixing bowl because I love making cakes from scratch. I pull out the vanilla and add it to the sugary mix we’ve already started to blend when my mother enters the kitchen.
“Ah, there you are, baking your wedding cake,” she says with a sinister smile.
I swear I heard her wrong because she couldn’t have said what I think she said. “Wedding cake?”
“Oh, you didn’t tell her?” She stares behind me. I turn, and my heart breaks.
“I didn’t…” Manuel’s eyes are filled with guilt, but there are no words.
“Come on, now. Don’t ruin today with tears, Patricia Marie. You’re going to do as you’re told, anyway. Finish the cake, and we’ll get you dressed in a pretty gown that we picked out for him.” She saunters out of the kitchen with a little too much sass.
“Bitch,” I say loudly enough for her to hear before the door fully closes.
She whips back around faster than I’ve ever seen her move before. She’s in my face, staring me down, but fear has temporarily left me. She’s already assigned me the worst fate next to death. “What did you call me?”
Standing straight up, backbone stiff, my smile spreads across my face as I say, “You heard me. I made sure not to mutter this time. I know how you can’t stand it, Mother Dearest.”
“You ungrateful brat.” She yanks me hard by the arm and slams me against the counter, sending the bowl full of sugar and vanilla all over me.
I’m so damn pissed I could kill her myself. “Yes, ungrateful, being sold to your highest bidder? Or who you owe a debt to? Or who? Just one of your soldiers?”
“To the devil—Sergei Morozov.” I’ve heard about him, and my mouth falls open. “That’s what I thought. You better watch your mouth because once he has you in his grasp, he’s not going to tolerate it.”