Page 68 of Adam
He nods casually, his eyes remaining on me for a bit longer, then turns around and walks away.
I have such a bad feeling about my father’s request, but of course, there’s nothing I can do. I have to obey like the good daughter I pretend to be. Or at least, that’s what people outside this circus think.
I drag my feet as long as humanly possible—because, honestly, the last thing I want is to see him. Defying him feels like the only tiny rebellion I’ve got left. But that lovely chill crawling down my spine just won’t quit. So, with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner heading to her execution, I straighten up and make my way to his office.
On my way there, everyone turns their heads away, and no one talks to me as ifIam the executioner walking among them. Shocking.
The door’s closed, of course. Because God forbid it ever be easy. I knock twice. Not a sound. He doesn’t even waste his precious royal breath acknowledging the nuisance that is his daughter waiting outside.
Whatever … I open the door.
“You wanted to see me.”
He gives me one of those slow, disdainful side glances that says I’m already polluting his oxygen. Then he lights his filthy cigar and lets the silence chew on me. Boris stands beside him, all broad shoulders and zero expression. Protecting him. From whom? His own daughter with a bad attitude?
“I’ll let it slide,” he says, exhaling the smoke. “You barged in here like a spoiled brat, but I’ve got bigger things to deal with.”
“I knocked twice.”
He inhales again. “Then maybe you should’ve waited for an answer.”
I never expect anything better from him—why would I? But somehow, he still manages to twist the knife a little deeper each time. He never misses a chance to drag me down. And the worst part is that it still gets to me.
Every. Damn. Time.
The door swings open again, snapping my attention toward it. It’s Adam. The moment he steps inside, strolling in like he owns the place, his eyes lock on mine.
“You called,” he says, voice low and rough, planting himself beside me. His arms fold across his chest—casual, almost bored.
Dad leaves his cigar on the glass ashtray, intertwines his fingers, and leans forward, resting his elbows on the chestnut desk.
“You need to escort her somewhere,” he says sternly to Adam, as if I’m not standing right beside him.
Adam shrugs. “That’s my job.”
Instantly, I’m even more certain that whatever my father has in mind, it’s definitely not a harmless stroll in the garden or some dull lecture at the university.
“Where?” I ask defiantly.
Dad clears his throat. “There’s this … friend of mine that wants to meet you,” he explains, his tone awfully and suspiciously nice.
“Me? Why?”
He exhales, his eyes almost rolling back, too bored to even explain his “friend’s” sudden interest in the daughter he never talks about.
“We’re going to do business together,” he says, voice lazy but heavy, cigar resting between his fingers again.
“And?”
He takes a slow drag, eyes narrowing just a bit. “Let’s just say … he’ll be family soon.”
I can’t believe this man.
“And he wants to take me out? Like … on a date?”
He shrugs, sets the cigar in the ashtray, and leans further into his black leather chair. “Well … you’ll both have men at your sides.” He looks at Adam. “And yours is more than capable of protecting you.”
My eyes land on Adam. He still looks calm, collected even, but I can see the truth beneath it. His jaw is locked tight, andthe veins in his neck stand out like he’s barely holding himself together.
