ARIEL
“Jesus, Ariel. You look like the ‘Before’ picture in a Prozac ad.” Gina’s waiting at my desk with two Starbucks cups, a frown, and helpful compliments, as always.
“Thanks, friend.” I collapse into my chair, sending a stack of unopened mail cascading to the floor. “I just had a heartwarming father-daughter chat. I said, I want to be free. He said, Marry the worst man alive or watch everyone you love die. You know, standard family stuff.”
She shoves a quad espresso at me, no room for cream, sugar, or hope. Just the way I like it. “Lemme guess—you caved?”
“Ten days.” I can barely bring myself to say it. Never before has an arbitrary length of time sounded so heinous and evil. “I have ten days to decide if I want to be Mrs. Bratva Barbie or sign your death warrant.”
“My warrant?” she balks. “What’d I do?”
“You chose to be my friend in third grade. Should’ve known that was an unforgivable sin.”
Gina snaps her fingers. “Dammit. Knew I should’ve picked Annie Clymer instead, even if she was an annoying horse girl.” She spins my chair around, forcing me to face her. “So what’s the play? Poison his borscht? Fake your death? Hop on a flight and parachute out the emergency exit over Darkest Peru?”
I stare at the article draft glowing accusingly on my screen—Local Bakery’s Cupcake Crusade Against Childhood Hunger. I’ll always remember this one, I think. My last byline before becoming a mob wife.
“The play is I do my goddamn job.”
For the next hour, I channel all my rage into typing. Every clack of the keyboard is a middle finger to Leander, to Sasha, to the universe. The column itself, however, is a little bit less heavy metal than that.
… The secret to owner Marisol Hernandez’s delicious lavender honey mascarpone cupcakes? It all comes down to one special ingredient, she says: “Love.”
I’m halfway through a paragraph on buttercream ratios when my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number.
An image loads—me and Sasha on the gala dance floor, his hand splayed possessively across my lower back. The caption reads: Looking forward to course two.
The screen cracks against the wall before I realize I’ve thrown it.
“Whoa!” Gina dives under her desk. “What the actual—?”
“Wrong number,” I rasp, staring at the shattered glass spiderwebbing across Sasha’s smirking face when my phone finishes bouncing back toward me and settles at my feet. After a minute, the screen goes black.
But even when he’s gone, I’m sick.
Fifteen years of running.
Six months of fetching coffee.
Ten days left before it all goes up in flames.
“There’s gotta be a way out of this,” Gina says.
I can only shake my head. “You should’ve seen my dad’s face. He was… I don’t even know what he was, Gee. If it was just him, then maybe I could get out of this. But there’s Sasha, too. And Sasha is… well… If I don’t know what my dad was, then I sure as hell don’t know what Sasha may or may not be. And I’m terrified to find out.”
“So it’s roll over and die? Ask ‘how high’ when they tell you to jump? C’mon, Ari—you’re a fighter. You’ve got more fire in you than that.”
Angry tears stud my eyes as I shake my head once again. “I wish I did. But unless Sasha has a sudden change of heart, I’m stuck. He’d have to be the one to call things off. But even then—”
“Wait. Wait. Hold the fucking phone, girl.” Gina’s eyes light up. “Do you remember what Lora said about her and Ethan? How he ghosted her after she proposed?”
I frown. “I’m already engaged. Proposing isn’t going to help.
“No, dummy. But think about it. She drove that guy away by being too much. She made him go running for the hills. And that’s what you want, right?”
“… You’ve lost me.”
“What I’m saying is that you need to be so utterly unbearable that even the Russian mob prince can’t stomach you. Not for all the tea in China.”
The idea crystallizes, sharp and dangerous as broken glass. “Make him dump me.”
“Bingo.” Gina leans forward, practically vibrating with glee. “Be clingy. Be psycho. Be the girl who names your future children on the first date and tells him about your recurring dream where you’re both dolphins swimming through fields of cotton candy.”
A laugh rips from my throat. “He’d rather shoot me.”
“That’s the point. Men like him want cool girls. Independent girls. Girls who don’t need them.” She ticks off on her fingers. “So be the exact opposite. Don’t be cool; be needy. Don’t be independent; be high maintenance. Make him realize marrying you would not be worth whatever deal he’s trying to make with your father.”
I want so badly to buy into this crazy scheme. But…
“You don’t know Sasha.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “He’s not some fuckboi finance bro who’ll run screaming from commitment. He’s—” I lower my voice, glancing around the office. “He’s dangerous, Gee.”
Gina rolls her chair closer, undeterred. “Then we go nuclear. Stage one: constant contact. I’m talking fifty texts an hour minimum. Hearts, baby animal GIFs, those weird little animated stickers of bears doing yoga.”
Despite everything, I snort. “I might drive myself insane.”
“Stage two,” she continues, warming to her theme, “social media assault. Tag him in every post. Write paragraph-long captions about your eternal love. Make one of those couple accounts—‘#SashaAndArielForever.’ Post badly edited photos of your faces morphed together to see what your babies would look like.”
“He’s not even on social—” I start, then stop. “Actually, that’s perfect. Nothing says ‘unhinged’ like tagging a nonexistent account sixty times a day.”
“Now, you’re getting it!” Gina’s practically bouncing. “Stage three: the pet names. The worse, the better. Schnookums. Babycakes. My little Bratva Bear.”
I choke on my coffee. “Oh, God.”
“Don’t lose steam now because stage four might be the most important. The future planning. Get a wedding Pinterest board. Leave bridal magazines everywhere. Start referring to his apartment as ‘our first home’ and talk about where you’re going to put the nursery.”
I can see it all now. Every awful date I’ve ever had, every red flag I’ve ever dodged—weaponized. I can become them all.
“And,” she continues, “under absolutely no circumstances do you make anything easy for him, ever. He’ll have to work like a dog for a peck on the cheek. A hug? Nuh-uh, that’s fourth date material at best. A kiss? In your dreams, buddy. You’ll be old and gray before you lock lips. But the whole time, you look like a dime piece every single date. Buy out the whole stock of Honey Birdette and give him a little peek here and there. Drive him crazy and never, ever let him eat.”
At this point, I’m cackling. “You’re evil.”
“I’m brilliant.”
“You’re both.” I smile, and it feels like baring fangs. “But you know what? You’re right. If Sasha Ozerov wants a wife, I’ll give him one straight from his worst fucking nightmares.”
“That’s my girl.” Gina raises her coffee in salute. “Operation Psycho Bride is a go. Just promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“If he doesn’t crack, and you do end up married…” She grins wickedly. “I better be your maid of honor. I’ll give the most emotionally inappropriate toast in wedding history. I’ll tell everyone about that time in college when you—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand, laughing despite myself. “If this works, there won’t be a wedding. And if it doesn’t…” I swallow hard. “Well, I might need you to give that toast at my funeral instead.”
“Please. You really think I’d let him kill you?” She pulls me into a fierce hug. “We’ve got this, Ariel. Ten days to make Sasha Ozerov regret ever hearing your name.”
The flowers arrive an hour later like a declaration of war.
Two dozen black roses, their petals kissed with crimson edges like they’ve been dipped in blood. The card is simple.
Tonight. Le Bernardin. Eight o’clock sharp.
Wear something pretty…
unless you’d prefer I choose for you.
—S.O.
“Holy shit,” Gina whispers, running her fingers over the thorns. “These are Midnight Supreme roses. They only grow in some secret Japanese greenhouse. You literally can’t even buy them—they’re invitation only.”
Of course they are. Because Sasha Ozerov doesn’t send grocery store bouquets. He sends impossible flowers, each petal screaming, I own everything. I can have anything. And now, I’m coming for you.
My hands shake as I read the card again. Eight o’clock. The first tick of my ten-day countdown to either submission or destruction.
“Perfect.” I crumple the card in my fist. “This is perfect. What better place to start Operation Psycho Bride than a five-star restaurant?”
“Love it.” Gina beams. “What are you gonna wear?”
I think of the bathroom at the Met. Of Sasha’s hands sliding up my thighs, his teeth at my throat. Of how badly I wanted him before I knew who—what—he was.
“Something that’ll make him remember what he will never, ever have again.”
The countdown starts tonight. But Sasha Ozerov isn’t the only one who knows how to play games.
Let’s see how he likes dating a nightmare.
