Contos sobre Melodramatic e Romances com Ruthless e Face Slapping

The night before registering our marriage, Elena Sawyer's friends suggest playing a game of truth or dare. Her girlfriends win, and the punishment is that Elena must speak only Ruskian from that moment on. My close friend, Justin Butler, is the first to speak to her in Ruskian. "You and Benjamin are registering your marriage tomorrow. Come up with an excuse to spend the night at my place. I just bought a few sets of the sexy uniforms you like." Elena smiles and replies, "After what you put me through last night, where we went through four condoms, you still haven't had enough?" She then turns around and affectionately takes my hand. Her girlfriends burst into laughter, realizing what she has said. I'm the only one left sitting there in confusion, asking Elena what she means. "Justin said we're registering our marriage tomorrow," she explains gently, "so he wants to prepare a surprise for us." Justin cuts in, still speaking Ruskian. "Forget it. I'm worried Benjamin might find out." Elena replies in Ruskian without hesitation, "And what if he does? He can't live without me anyway." I freeze. All this time, I've assumed that she and Justin often speak Ruskian simply because they want to practice the language. After all, they both studied abroad in Ruskia, while I'm just an ordinary guy who grew up in the country. What they don't know is that although I grew up locally, my late mother is Ruskian, and that makes me half Ruskian.

Ever since I was little, I knew my mom didn't want me. My dad, though, kept telling me that she loved me, but some complicated stuff was keeping her away. He said that once I grew up, I needed to find her and claim my place in her life. I always figured he was just making things up so I wouldn't grow up resentful of the motherly love I never had. Then the debt piled up. Dad was scrolling through TikTok, looking for any way to drum up sympathy online, when he suddenly let out a wild yell. "Scrappy! Look, it’s your mom! Pack your stuff, we’re going to find her!" I stared at the screen. The woman in the video was stunning, effortlessly poised, and dripping in old-money elegance. A cold pit formed in my stomach. My mom was a wealthy socialite from New York City? How could someone like her ever be connected to a holler like ours? Even with the doubts screaming in my head, I packed my worn-out duffel bag and boarded the bus to Manhattan with my dad.