I remember transferring Mikhail’s half of the payment for the photo shoot to his bank account and the other half to my mother, and the paperwork I stumbled onto when attempting to tell Mikhail I had used his computer. But other than that, my night is a haze of short video montages.
The roiling of my stomach worsens when I glance at my phone, hopeful it will clear up some inconsistencies. Notifications from various shopping apps flood the screen. I didn’t stick with Temu and Shein this time. I splurged on goods at high-end department stores, and there’s even a purchase for a top-of-the-range sports vehicle.
The total amount on the screen makes me sick, and not even the remembrance that it is barely ten percent of the amount Mikhail tried to stiff me on eases my guilt.
I feel sick, not just from excessive drinking but from the realization of my actions when more memories flood in.
Last night, I didn’t just throw Mikhail under the bus. I tossed a handful of Zelenolsk staff under the wheels with him.
Needing to make things right, I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting every movement. I need water, something to settle my stomach, and some aspirin before I can even contemplate how to fix my monumental fuckup.
As I make my way downstairs, I recall how my spending began with spoiling the staff at Zelenolsk Manor. With Mikhail’s credit card details at the ready, I ordered a feast fit for kings and enough alcohol to make senseless mistakes seem logical.
I can’t take back the purchases. They disappeared in a matter of hours. But I can ensure that my ill judgment doesn’t affect the people who helped me forget the woes of my life for a couple of hours.
The unease of my stomach settles in my chest as I descend the spiral staircase. The silence is unsettling, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss.
As I cross the marble tiles, my footsteps echo in the quietness of Zelenolsk Manor. The hum of activity from yesterday is absent, and the emptiness of such a large space feels eerie.
As I approach the kitchen, I rake my eyes across the multiple living areas. As per the worst outcome I thought possible, all the staff are gone—including the maintenance crew, who ensured I vomited on a paved area so the lawns and gardens would maintain their pristine, non-stomach-bile-scorched appearance.
A manor that once housed hundreds of residents on its grounds is silent, and my anxiety grows with each passing second.
I fucked up.
I fucked upbad.
In the kitchen, I find Mikhail. Like yesterday morning, he sits at the breakfast nook, cradling a cup of coffee. His hunched shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes are noticeable. He looks tired, though he is still the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.
Worry spreads across my chest, but I try to play it off. “Morning. Where is everyone?”
Mikhail looks up, and that is when I realize he knows everything. The millions I squandered, the liquor I drank with his staff, and the loathsomeness I felt when I tried to flirt, only for it to be politely dismissed.
“Perhaps it is time to call it a night,Mrs.Dokovic?” rang on repeat last night.
“The economy is in a crisis, Mikhail. Your father won’t get close to his competitor if his voters find out you let go of hundreds of employees because you were jealous.” I hate myself for my last word, but when you’re clutching at straws, you throw more than morals into a burning building. You take people undeserving into the flames with you. “You could lose your father the presidency, all because you don’t trust me to let my hair down occasionally.”
Last night was about more than letting my hair down, but arguments fizzle too fast when you start with the big hitters, and then nothing but lies are told instead of the truth.
Mikhail’s lack of retort stings.
It burns like a thousand bee stings.
I know everything I need to know, but I can’t help but push. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” I wave my hand around the empty kitchen, its flap deafening in the silence. “You don’t trust me.”
“It has nothing to do with that,” he lies, breaking my heart.
He didn’t deny that he doesn’t trust me.
He denied that it was the motive of his foolhardiness this time around.
Too angry to think rationally, I roll my eyes before exiting the kitchen with more speed than I entered it. My throbbing temples move toward a blinding migraine, but I keep moving, confident no amount of coin is worth this level of heartache.
Mikhail is on my heels two seconds later. “Don’t walk away from me, Emerson. You don’t get to do that again.”
Hair slaps my face when I whip around to face him, my footing unsteady but resolute. “Again? I didn’t do it the first time, so how could I do it again?”
“Oh, that’s right. You would have had to show up to walk away. I forget not showing up isn’t the same as walking away.” His snarky words are like knives to my chest, so it is only fair I hit him with the same level of aggression.
