Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“And?”
She pffts her dislike of my reply before saying, “And…”—she drags out the three-letter word as if it is an entire sentence—“during your two-minute rundown on what happened, you said the clerk announced the Petrovitchs were several thousand in debt.” She lowers her tone, bringing it closer to the sluggish beat of my heart. “I don’t think you have that much in your box, Keet. Because if you did, you would have purchased your grandfather’s breathing machine with it months ago.”
She’s right. I would have. I counted the cash in the box under my bed every payday, hoping I’d have enough to purchase a new ECOM machine. I was still several thousand short before Maksim entered my life.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice croaky.
“Yeah, you do.” Her tone announces she isn’t being pushy or mean. She understands this is hard for me, but she also understands I would have done anything for Yulia not to face the outcome my sister got lumped with. “Maksim gave you that credit card for a reason. He wants you to use it.”
“That was before we…”
“We…?” Zoya encourages, incapable of reading my mind over the phone.
I swallow the lump in my throat before admitting, “We’re kind of not on speaking terms.”
“Huh?” Even the shortness of her reply can’t hide her confusion. “Since when?”
“Since I threatened to leave him—”
“You what?” Her reply is so loud half the patients of Myasnikov Private hear her.
“Things are complicated.” I sigh, not wanting to have this conversation at all, much less over the phone.
“Oh, I bet they are. Maksim is…”
Many words roll through my head when she pauses to consider a reply. They should be about his dark and dangerous side, but my heart wins the battle this time, and it has me expressing something I thought I’d take to my grave. “I miss him, Z.”
“Then tell him that.”
I slump onto the bench across from my locker. “I can’t.” Before she can call me an idiot, I express my biggest fear. “What if I lose him too?”
“Keet…” She stops to breathe out the laughter I hear rattling in her chest, shocking me. How is this funny? “I love you, girl, but sometimes you’re so blind you can’t see what is directly in front of you.” I blame the adrenaline rush of my last two hours in the ER when a tear topples down my cheek. “Maksim would never put you in that position. He loves you too much to ever hurt you like that.”
The tear flings off my cheek when I shake my head. “No—”
“He. Loves. You. That’s why he is struggling to give you the promise you need to move past your fear that you will lose him too. He isn’t a man who can sit back and let the person he loves be hurt because she wants him to promise not to retaliate. I don’t know a single man who could promise that, let alone one who spent most of his childhood protecting his mother.”
My voice cracks when I ask, “He told you about that?”
“No.” Nothing but honesty rings in her tone. “But I know you, and I understand your fear.” A shuddering breath fills my chest when she says, “And I also understand Maksim’s. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to love you, but that comes with a prerequisite of protection. Everyone knows that. You just seem to have gotten the criteria a little mixed up since you’ve forgotten the love a parent has for a child is different from the love of a spouse.” She hits me where it hurts. “Maksim isn’t your dad, but I sure as fuck hope he loves and protects you as fiercely as your father did your mother, because that is the type of love every girl should strive for. That is real love.”
The dam in my eyes breaks, and so does my stubbornness. For years, I only considered my feelings when my father chose revenge over me. I never once considered the hell I forced him to walk through when I demanded he pick me over the love of his life.
I am his daughter, his flesh and blood, but he chose my mother long before I entered the picture.
I am the byproduct of their love, not the source of it.
As I wipe under my nose to make sure nothing has spilled, I say, “Z, I have to go.”
“Fuckin’ oath you do.” Jealousy burns up some of the wetness in my eyes when she says, “Give him a kiss from me.”
She’s still laughing about my grumble when I yank my phone from my ear, toss it into my purse, and then hightail it out of the locker room.
“Dr. Hoffman,” the ER ward clerk shouts when I race past the nurses’ station she’s manning with the billing clerk from the administration team.