The Alpha Don’s Fake Bride

NIKA.

My shift had ended, and yet there were still no calls from my boyfriend.

I sighed, packed up my things, and made my way out of the bar, saying goodbye to my coworkers as I left. I hesitated at the door for a moment before sending one more text to Matt, letting him know I was on my way home and that he should stop by when he was through with work. It was our anniversary, after all, and I’d been planning tonight for the past week.

The message joined the hundreds of others I’d sent over the past few days, delivered.

Anxiety settled like a rock in my stomach, followed by a rush of self-consciousness. Matt and I had been together for two years. He’d been the one to save me from completely ruining myself after Alex had left me.

I never fully understood what had brought us together. We belonged to two different worlds, him a successful accountant, me a struggling, alcoholic bartender. We’d met at a party hosted by a mutual friend. He’d stepped in when a handsy guest tried reaching up my skirt, and that had been my last straw that week. I’d broken down crying all over his expensive suit.

If he’d been anything like the elites of this city, he probably would’ve shoved me away and cursed at me for ruining his clothes. Instead, he hugged me, helped me pull myself together, and took me away from the party to a small pizza place not too far away. We talked there, and I poured my heart out to him—about my family, about the mess I’d made of my life. I’d expected judgment, cruelty, disdain. Anything other than the calm understanding he showed me.

After that, he took my number, and the rest is history.

With his help, I’d shed the alcoholic title. I was still a struggling bartender, though—hopping from one place to another, earning below minimum wage and living in a shabby apartment. I was painfully aware that he was way above my league, but I’d hoped that he, at least, would never realise it.

I glanced down at my phone again as I began the walk home. Of course, there were many likely reasons why he hadn’t managed to reach out to me. This wasn’t the first, second, or even third time Matt had disappeared for days on end. But in all those instances, he’d given me a warning beforehand, along with an estimate of when he’d be reachable again. He’d never disappeared before an important date, and he’d never been distant in the days leading up to it.

We’d been arguing more often lately. And about random things we’d never had issues with before, about topics that made no sense to fight over. He no longer stayed over at my place. He’d stopped bringing me to events with him. Sometimes I wondered if he’d finally started listening to his friends’ whispers about how low level I was. Gold digger. Social climber. Just a few of the things they’d called me.

Even though I’d never asked him for money. Even though I’d never accepted it when he tried to help.

Maybe he was tired of his girlfriend looking underfed and weary. Maybe he was finally done with me.

My heart clenched at the thought. Matt was all I had in the world. After years of being abandoned and discarded by everyone, I’d hoped that he, at least, would stay.

Every few steps, my fingers twitched with the urge to check my phone again, as if staring hard enough might make a missed call appear. It didn’t. The screen stayed stubbornly blank.

By the time I reached my apartment building, my chest felt tight, my breath shallow. I climbed the stairs slower than usual, dread pooling in my gut for reasons I couldn’t fully name. When I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the first thing I noticed was the light.

I never left the living room light on.

I froze and immediately reached for the knife I kept in my pocket, taking a step back, ready to dart out the door and down the stairs again. Then my panic cleared, and I properly registered the figures in the living room. This time, I froze for an entirely different reason.

A curse slipped past my lips as I released the knife, still not moving from the doorway while I took in my parents seated on my shoddy couch. They were dressed in their usual designer clothing, surrounded by bodyguards, and looked painfully out of place in my tiny apartment.

For a moment, I just stared and they stared right back. The last time I’d seen my parents, they hadn’t had quite as many lines or as much grey in their hair. A twinge of something tight and unfamiliar stirred in my chest at the sight of them, before anger quickly replaced it.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. The words came out sharper than I meant them to and yet, not sharp enough. My body went rigid, instincts snapping into place. “How did you even get in?”

My father’s face turned stony. “Is that any way to greet your parents, girl?”

His voice hit like a punch to the gut, deep and heavy with the thick Russian accent that clung to every syllable even after all his years in America. The last time I’d heard that voice, he’d been yelling at me to leave and never come back. And now here he was.

“I asked you a question,” I spat, still rooted to the spot near the door.

I wasn’t surprised they knew where I lived. Estranged daughter or not, they probably kept tabs on my every move. One slip-up and I could ruin the Morozova name.

“We used the spare key,” my mother replied, her voice much gentler.

I didn’t look away from my father, only pursed my lips. I didn’t have a spare key.

“What do you want, then?” I asked, finally prying myself away from the door and shutting it behind me. I dropped my bag at my feet and crossed my arms. “I haven’t done anything to besmirch the family name, don’t worry. No one—”

“We didn’t come here because of you,” my father interrupted, then cleared his throat.

I watched him stand as my thoughts began to race. If they weren’t here about me, then could it be about—

“Daria?”

My mother’s gaze dropped to the worn carpet while my father adjusted his suit.

For the first time, genuine concern cut through me. I looked between them. “What happened to Daria?” My voice tightened. “What happened to my sister?”

My father pressed his lips together before finally speaking.

“Nika,” he said, “your sister is missing. And we need your help.”