Dr Meera Saravana has been on the run for the last ten years due to a fatal misunderstanding. She ends up in New York, hoping that maybe this time everything will work out. But that's turning out to be impossible the more she gets involved with the...
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IVAN
I didn't understand why Anya forced me into these events.
A flash of pink caught my eye from across the marbled room. My dearest and eldest sister was entertaining some of our board members, smiling brightly and laughing at their terrible jokes. A glass of champagne was held delicately in her hand. I did not envy her.
It was a gathering of the ultra-rich and powerful in one place battling over useless old things in the name of charity. It was pomp and circumstance. It was an absolute fucking bore.
Mom had organised it as a way to keep herself busy. She was dressed in a grey gown that reached down to her ankles, her hair was swept into a complicated updo, held together diamond encrusted pins. If anyone looked at Sofie Farewell, they wouldn't even think she was a grieving widow.
Ever since the fight we had in the study, it's been awkward between us. I apologised with her favourite flowers and promised my best not to die but it wasn't enough for her. I think I made her see the truth that she refused to see. Anya told me to give her time to get used to her new reality. I just wondered how long my mom was going to take.
I took a sip of the complimentary champagne. It wasn't too bad. At least there was one thing good about this charity ball. There was still an hour to go before the auction started. Anya had her eye on a painting and as her dearest brother, I decided that I would try my best to get it for her. That is if Zoya and his spawn of Satan don't get it first.
Eddie and Felix stuck close to me like a pair of wings, both of them watching Zoya and his men like hawks. The man in question was seated at his table. His son, Arlo, is next to him dressed in a dark green suit. I wondered how someone like him could ever be Zoya's son. Zoya was black-haired and green-eyed when he was younger, the only thing that remains due to age are his eyes. His son had brown eyes, black hair, a chiselled face, and a pointed nose that could cut a cake. Arlo was almost like his father, he just lacked Zoya's mind. And his ambition. Both of them stopped talking and turned to look at me as If they knew I was staring. They both had a dead look in their eyes. I tipped my champagne glass at them and sent them a well-deserved sneer.
Zoya scoffed, turned away and had one of his men bent down to his level to whisper something into their ear. Arlo was still staring at me. I raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to do anything else. He got up, his chair scraping loudly against the marble floor and stalked over towards me. His father grabbed his arm but it was in vain.
I sighed, wondering what I would have to get mother as an apology gift if this went south.
Arlo was a former boxer, his gait was heavy and demanding. His hands were already curled into fists, ready to strike. I could hear the clicks of his heels as he approached me and I braced myself for a confrontation that would inevitably come.
"Arlo," I greeted coolly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his bravado.
"Ivan," he sneered. "I see you're still alive. How's the arm?"
