Page 109 of Hate You Most
“What agreement?” she asked again.
There was a faint rustle on the other end of the line as her father took a deep breath.
“You will not involve yourself with women in that way,” he said, each word precise and deliberate. “You will maintain the image that has been established. You will not jeopardize your career, your reputation, or anything else that has been arranged for you. For once in your life, do as you are told. You are going to get yourself killed otherwise.”
She wished she could have seen his face. She was sure she would have punched him in the face, maybe broken his nose—he deserved it. But punching a billionaire businessman with deep political connections probably wouldn't go over well with the government, and then she’d surely not be allowed on the ice again.
“I am only protecting you,” he added after, as if it softened anything.
Viktoriya swallowed, her throat tight. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“You did.”
She pushed further. “When?”
“That is irrelevant now.”
“It’s not irrelevant if I don’t remember it,” she said, and her voice cracked fully. She breathed in the stale room air. Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
“It does not matter what you remember,” he replied. “It matters what is expected of you.”
Viktoriya shook her head slightly, even though he couldn’t see it. “No,” she said. “It matters.”
There was a crackle on the other end of the line. “You are not in a position to question this,” her father said.
“And you’re not in a position to tell me what I’ve agreed to if I don’t even remember it happening,” she shot back before she could stop herself. She didn't even fully raise her voice, but the silence that followed was immediate.
Why the fuck did she just do that?
All control had slipped from her grasp. All that remained was twenty-six years of bottled-up anger and mistreatment. For a moment, she was naive enough to believe he would actually answer her.
“This conversation is over,” he said and then the line went dead.
She listened to the silence for a second before moving her phone from her ear. Viktoriya stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, her reflection faint and distorted against the dark surface.
Dakota shifted slightly beside her. Her voice was quiet as she spoke. “Are you okay? What was all that about?”
“I don’t know,” she said. How could she possibly explain this conversation? There was nothing to explain, she had gone against what was expected of her, and she was going to live with that for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
April 27th, 2023.
— Dakota Sanchez apartment. Detroit, Michigan, morning.
Awareness returned to her in layers. If she could have stayed in that muddled clarity for just a moment longer, that would've been great, but Dakota's snoring was relentless. It wasn't cute anymore. She could close her eyes and lay there all she wanted, but she knew she wasn't falling back asleep.
Viktoriya remained still, her breathing slow. Maybe she could pretend she was asleep, and her brain would fall for the trick.
When she finally opened her eyes, the room was dim and the early morning light filtered in through the curtains in a way that softened everything it touched.
Dakota was still asleep, turned slightly toward her with an arm bent beneath the pillow in a position that looked uncomfortable. Her dark hair fell across her face in a way that surely would've irritated her if she were awake, but now only made her seem younger. Viktoriya found it unexpectedly difficult to look away.
This was creepy. She was being creepy.
She allowed herself to watch for only a moment longer and then looked away again. She had spent years organizing her thoughts into categories: what was acceptable and what wasn't. Even now, her mind automatically decided whether her thoughts should be drenched in guilt or shame. Her wife was sleeping beside her, and she still found guilt in admiring her half bare body. It was engrained so deeply in her mind that it couldn't be separated without losing a part of herself.
She wished she could cut that part out.
