Aurelia Averli

— Tomorrow at nineteen o'clock you will come to the restaurant “Elita” to meet me, — from his mouth it sounds like an order. — I have other plans, so I have to give up. — Cancel all plans. Maybe you haven't understood yet, but I'm not refused, — sounds with pressure. — Maybe you didn't understand that? I won't come. — I need a super good reason to refuse this date. I don't invent anything better, and I confidently lie: — I don't go on a date, I'm Zakhar Grozovsky's wife. Intentionally naming the city's crime boss. A predatory smile appears on the stranger's lips, causing ants to run across the skin. — You are somewhat ahead of events, baby, because I am Zakhar Grozovsky. We'll go on a date first, and we'll think about the wedding later.

— I don’t remember… Are you really my husband? — I ask, eyeing him with suspicion. He frowns. — Unfortunately, yes. Why do you doubt it? — I thought you’d be… nicer. Your wife was in a car crash, barely survived, lost her memory — and instead of a kiss on the cheek, I’m getting baseless accusations. He blinks, clearly thrown off. — You want a kiss? Did you hit your head harder than we thought? You’ve caused way too much trouble for me to be kissing you. — Then why haven’t you divorced me?

— So, you're pregnant? — As you can see, — I gesture pointedly at my belly, — I informed HR about the pregnancy, and as far as I know, they’ve already found my replacement. I’ve brought all the medical documents. The man seems not to hear a word. Lost in thought, he runs a hand along his short beard. — When are you due? — In two months. — And you're unmarried, — he states. I press my lips together. I don’t want to talk about the bastard I once called “my love” — the one who vanished the moment I told him I was pregnant, rejecting both me and the baby. With a heavy sigh, I admit: — I’m single. I’ll raise the child on my own. — Perfect, — a smile flashes across his face. Seeing my confusion, he quickly adds: — I mean, I’m sorry to hear that. But… I have a proposition. I’ll pay you — if y

— An apartment and a promotion, just for pretending to be your fiancée? — Yes. But you’ll have to make it convincing. — Why me? — I finally dare to ask the question that’s been bothering me since the start of this strange conversation. — I didn’t want to ask a stranger off the street. I know you. You’re good at your job, and I believe you can pull this off. — Pull off the role of a gold-digger? — Not just that. I want you to bring my children together. Right now, they have nothing in common. No shared ground. I’m desperate. I fear that when I die, they’ll forget about each other entirely. I need to make Mark stay in the company. That’s something just anyone can’t do — but I’m sure you can. He’s so surе because he has no idea about the secret that ties me to his son.

— Do you love him? — Yes, — I answer without hesitation, the word sharp and certain. — How far are you willing to go to save his life and repay the debt? The question knocks the air out of my lungs. I fall silent, watching as he steps closer, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me against him. A dangerous heat surges through my body, scorching every emotion. I frown. — What do you want? — Give me the night, — he breathes, leaning in for a kiss. Panic erupts in my chest. How dare he? Bastard! To keep myself from collapsing, I reach out for the wall—but my hand finds something else on the dresser. Without thinking, I grab it and swing. To my own surprise, I hit Lukyan over the head with a pot. A cactus pot.