Carefully, I reached for the manila envelope, dragging it across the pristine floor toward me. I sat up, propping my back against his nightstand, and pulled the thick stack of papers inside it out.
In the Superior Court of Middlesex County
State of Massachusetts
Civil Action
In re the Name Change of: Nicholai Ruslan Ivanov
Case Number: 190482873983
PETITION TO CHANGE NAME OF ADULT
The petitioner respectfully moves this Court to change his name from Nicholai Ruslan Ivanov to Christian George Miller.
A yelp escaped my mouth. Nothing could prepare me for the pain I felt in that moment. Like someone had reached into my chest, breaking my rib cage in the process, and clawed my heart out, twisting it ruthlessly in their fist.
Christian was Nicholai.
Nicholai was Christian.
Nicky wasn’t dead. He’d been here all along. Lurking in the shadows, planning his grand revenge for what my family had done to him, no doubt. The trial. The sentence. The conquest. The girl who’d turned into a woman, who’d turned into a tool.
Me.
I put together the jagged pieces. The way he’d spoken about my father . . . the hunger with which he’d fought for the case . . .
That first time I’d met him at the elevator and had that peculiar feeling. The air had been loaded with many more feelings than any two strangers could ever evoke in one another.
That strange notion in my stomach that I’d always known him, that he was somehow engraved into my skin, wasn’t a false alarm. He knew who I was and had kept his identity from me.
The man I’d put my trust in had broken my heart. Twice.
And in the process, he’d also managed to strip my family of everything it owned, lie to the world about who he was, and out us as an item.
Middlesex, Massachusetts.Christian had changed his name while he’d attended undergrad at Harvard University, or right before. Had he planned this all along? Becoming a lawyer so he could bring my father down, and me with him? Had he sought out Amanda himself?
I was too curious to fall apart. I’d have time for that later, once I left this man’s apartment. I continued rummaging through the folders in the manila envelope instead. All the paperwork for the change of name from Nicholai to Christian, his old and current passports, and the death certificate for Ruslana Ivanova.
Ruslana had died.
That was news to me. Then again, everything about this situation was. Now it all made sense. Why Christian had leaked our relationship to the press, and with perfect timing too. Right after my father’s trial. He’d killed two birds—or Roths—with one stone. He’d just never taken one thing into consideration—that I was going to find out his secret.
I took pictures of the damning documents of the name change with my phone, making sure they were clear and in focus. Then I grabbed my book and dashed out of his apartment.
My knee-jerk reaction was to take it to my father. To show him the evidence against Christian and start working toward an appeal, now that it was clear that Christian never should have worked on the case. He knew my family too well and had a vendetta against us. I slid into a taxi and was about to utter my parents’ address when I realized I didn’t want to do that either.
True, Christian was an asshole of gigantic proportions, but so was my father. Ultimately, they were as bad as each other. I wanted to use the information I had against Christian to ruin him, but not necessarily in the most straightforward way, in which my father got off the hook too.
Conrad Roth definitely deserved to be stripped of his reputation, money, and social standing. He’d done horrible things to people and used his power against helpless women.
I needed to think about it, long and hard. To come up with a plan.
“Miss? Excuse me? Yoo-hoo?” The cabdriver waved his fingers in the direction of the rearview mirror. “Not that it ain’t nice to sit here and watch you talking to yourself, but where to?”
I gave him my apartment address.
I was going to ruin Nicky. But in my own Ari way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHRISTIAN
Present
“Think again, Mr. Hotshot,” Claire giggled breathlessly, snatching the phone from my hand. We had just walked out of the courthouse. I’d said my goodbyes to Amanda Gispen and the other plaintiffs, ignoring the journalists and photographers begging for a comment, and was about to hail a cab to Arya’s office. First things first, I needed to make sure she was okay with everything that had happened. As okay as one could be considering the circumstances. Second, I needed to come clean.
She had to know who I was.
This could not be postponed any longer.
Claire, apparently, had other ideas.
“Give me my phone back.” I all but bared my teeth at her, stretching my arm with my palm open in her direction. Claire bit down on her lip, glowing with pride. She’d worn a brand-new suit today to court. A double-breasted Alexander McQueen that must’ve cost her an arm, a leg, and her monthly rent.
“No can do, Mr. Miller.” She winked, pocketing my phone. “This is an order from high up. Traurig said no distractions. He has a surprise for you.”
“Give me my phone, Claire,” I said pointedly. “I have someone to call.”
“That someone can wait ten minutes. We work two blocks from here.” Claire wrapped her arm around mine, tugging me forward. “Jeez, don’t be a party pooper. Just make a toast with everyone, thank Traurig and Cromwell, and go your merry way. You’ve gotten this far; are you seriously not going to make it to your own partnership party?” Claire elevated a carefully plucked eyebrow. I wasn’t an easily swayed man. Came with the territory of knowing the price temptation could cost you. I was about to answer her that yes, I was, in fact, going to bail on my own party, because partying wasn’t nearly as important as making sure the woman I was dating was still, in fact, dating me. Just then, I felt two firm hands clapping me on either side of my back.
Shit.
“The man of the hour,” drawled Cromwell, fingering his mustache like a D-grade villain.
“The belle of the ball.” Traurig nudged Claire aside. “I have a Cuban cigar with your name on it and some gold lettering we need to add to the firm’s name. The maintenance guy is already there, waiting for us. Hurry up.”
The maintenance guy was there, waiting to put my letters up. Hunky freaking dory. Claire flashed me a look that said Don’t you dare. She had a point. If I bailed now, I was going to look like a deranged idiot—not the best look. Plus, the outcome wasn’t anything Arya hadn’t been expecting. We’d been discussing this for weeks.
Ten minutes, however, somehow bled into eternity. It took the maintenance guy almost an hour to add the golden letters at the entrance to the firm, possibly because Cromwell and Traurig kept shouting at him that my last name wasn’t symmetrical. After which I was dragged into one of the conference rooms, where the entire firm waited with cake, cigars, booze, and a huge present wrapped in a red satin bow.
“I’m so proud of you. I cannot even tell you how much,” my PA wept. Then every single person on the floor felt the urge to congratulate me and shake my hand, one by one.
I kept telling myself that if Arya was so desperate to talk to me, she could always call my office.
When the Oscar-worthy ceremony was over—two freaking hours later—Traurig asked that I open my giant gift. It turned out to be new business cards with the full, new name of the firm: Cromwell, Traurig & Miller. Bold golden lettering over sleek black cards. I waited for euphoria to take over my senses. But all I could feel when I stared at my new business cards was: I really want to see Arya. Not this evening. Not in an hour. Now.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice steely, circling my fingers around Claire’s arm and leading her out of the conference room. I glanced at my watch again on my way to my office. It seemed like centuries since we’d left the courtroom. The fact I hadn’t called Arya thus far was ill mannered at best and cunt-a-licious at worse.
When we got to my office, I closed the door behind us. My spidey sense told me there was going to be a lot of shouting in my near future.
“Give me my phone, Claire.”
She winced. “So soon? We haven’t even had lunch. I was thinking maybe I could buy you a drink. We have a lot to talk about, and I—”
“Phone!” I slapped my hand on the wall behind her, and she squeaked, jumping. I was not a violent person, but I was starting to lose my patience and didn’t want my first move as a partner to be firing an associate who’d just helped me win a huge case. “Or you walk out of here with security at your fucking heels, Lesavoy.”
With a pout, Claire produced my phone from her pocket. I glanced at it, feeling my pulse quickening against the collar of my shirt. I had over fifty missed calls from Arya. And some texts too. The minute the face recognition was on, the texts began sliding down chronologically on the screen one by one.
Arya: How could you do this to me?
Arya: You’ve SHATTERED my career. I can’t show my face ever again. And my nonexistent relationship with my mother is over. Not to mention my father (who is dead to me, but it would have been nice to make that choice myself).
Ruined her career? Her relationships? What the hell was she on about?
Arya: What I don’t understand is how you could be so heartless? How you did it on the same night you promised you wouldn’t break my trust.
Arya: I’ll give you that, it was a genius move. You probably had a blast laughing about it in court. Now you can go back to Claire. I know you guys were casual, but man, you deserve each other.
Claire must’ve seen the confusion clouding my face, because I noticed her licking her lips in my periphery, shifting from one foot to the other. “Everything okay?”
“I—” I paused, trying to understand what was happening here, until it clicked. The limo. Claire talking to Darrin. Knowing my whereabouts with Arya. The way she’d pursued me relentlessly.
Press.That was the one thing Arya and I had agreed not to involve. We didn’t want to be seen or caught.
My eyes glided up from my phone. I could feel my gaze turning hard, callous, as I watched Claire’s face. “What have you done?”
“I . . . I . . .” She tried to take a step back, but she was pressed against the wall, with nowhere to go. I’d never thought of myself as someone who could hurt a woman, but in that moment, I knew I could hurt Claire. Not physically, no. But I could fire her. Banish her. Make her a persona non grata in Manhattan’s legal circle.
“Speak.”
Claire dropped her head, shaking it as she covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry. I just told a friend of mine who works at the Manhattan Times. That’s it. It slipped.” She cringed. But she wasn’t fooling anyone, and she knew it. I took a step back, knowing full well I wasn’t in control of myself. Arya must be thinking the worst of me right now.
“Leave.” I breathed through my nose, digging my thumb and index finger into my eye sockets.
“To . . . my office?”
“To . . . the fucking hellhole where you came from.” I mimicked her tone derisively, opening my eyes again. “And don’t come back. Ever.”
“We just won a case.”
“You lost all credibility with me the minute you leaked a story about me to a journalist.”
“You can’t do that!” Claire flung her arms in the air. “You can’t make a decision like that without consulting Traurig and Cromwell. You’ve been a partner for all of five minutes.”
“All right.” I smiled cordially. “Let’s go to Cromwell’s office right now and tell him what you did. See how it’s going to fare for you.”
Her face whitened. What the hell had she thought? That I wasn’t going to find out? Claire hugged her arms, looking down at the floor.
“What did you think?” I spit out, curious about the rationale behind this atrocity.
“I thought after the trial was over you were going to dump her. But I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to take any chances. And I certainly didn’t think you’d care all that much. Not to mention . . .” She blew out air, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I simply didn’t think. That’s the thing. That’s what happens when you’re in love. Have you ever been in love, Christian?”
I was about to say no, I hadn’t, and that fact had nothing to do with anything, when I realized . . . I couldn’t say that for sure.
“Good luck seeing yourself out, Miss Lesavoy.”
I brushed past Claire’s shoulder, heading out of the office. I didn’t tell a soul. My PA jumped up, asking where I was heading. She was met with no reply. My first stop was Arya’s office. I buzzed the building’s intercom, getting through to Whitney or Whitley or whatever her name was. The receptionist didn’t answer me verbally. She did push her upper body through the window of her office and pour her lukewarm coffee atop my head before finishing the gesture by slamming her glass window shut.