He swiped left and kept swiping. The pictures kept getting worse. There was one—it looked, well, if you spun a story just right, it looked quite forceful. Like my dad was hurting him.

“I think this one’s the winner, Kaavi.” Spencer read my mind. “This young man he’s with, I happened to have a chat with him. He’s willing to come forward, you know. To tell everyone and anyone that your father forced him into this. That he was exploiting him. He’s willing, if he had the right support, to hire a lawyer and press charges. Now, I know you lot have your connections, of course. Could probably bribe a judge or do whatever to get this buried, but not before word really gets around. Think of what this would do to your family.”

I stayed quiet. Fuck, did this son of a bitch have me?

“I know you’d never in a million years let that happen. You’d sooner die than let your family’s name and business be ruined. Especially if it risks your father going to jail for assault. Especially if it risks you losing all this.” He swept his arm around, indicating my house. My home. My family.

“So it’s pretty simple, Kaavi. I’m not a total asshole. Our initial agreement still stands. I will be a loving and devoted husband to you, at least in public, just the way you like it. And I get, well, I get the kind of life I could have only ever dreamed about when I was starving, being jostled around foster homes, and working my ass off. There’s no way in hell I’m losing all this just because you had a change of heart.”

28

KAAVI

Three Days before the Wedding

There was only one person left to speak to, and she wasn’t going to like it one bit.

I’d seen my mother leave the house in a huff, slamming the front door on her way out. When she gets upset, there’s only one place where she takes refuge—the spa. I paced around my room like a wild animal until she returned. One of the newer maids must have been in here earlier because a few things weren’t where they were supposed to be and my bedspread wasn’t smoothed out the way I’d instructed. I straightened it out, restless, and shifted the picture frames back to their usual spots. There was a stray piece of paper on the floor as well—Kaavi, please call me. We need to talk, it read. The handwriting looked familiar, but there was no name. That was weird. I checked my messages to see if any of the girls from Chicago had tried to get in touch, but I honestly didn’t have the energy to deal with any more drama. I was up to my neck in it as it was.

My mother had just gotten back when I knocked on the door of her bedroom (she calls it her “dressing room,” and while it did hold enough clothes to dress a small population of heavyset women who loved all things colorful and sparkly, she wasn’t fooling anyone by pretending she still slept in the same room as my father).