With This Ring

He didn’t care about anyone or anything.

Once I went into his study and he was fucking a woman on his desk. I immediately tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let me, but neither would he stop. I had to stand there with my gaze on the floor until he finished. As the woman passed by me, he said as casual as you please, “What did you want?” I’ve seen my father kill a man the way someone else would kill an ant.

I met Britney’s eyes in the mirror. “My father is not … horrible. We’re just not close.”

“Yet you’re changing all our plans to go to have breakfast with him?”

I pulled on a white blouse and started buttoning it. “Yes. He is my father. Besides, he has to fly out again later today and this is the only time he has.”

“Hmm …” She eats another spoonful of cereal. “What do you think he wants to say to you?”

Tucking my blouse into a pair of comfortable black cargo pants, I picked up my hair brush. “I don’t know.”

“You mean, he didn’t say at all?”

“Nope.”

When I got out of my shabby apartment building in the Bronx it was 9:30. A glistening black town car with a dark suited chauffeur inside was waiting for me. It was the shiny statement of excessive wealth that did not belong in that neighborhood. Britney was hanging out of the window looking down on me. Her mouth was open in shock. A pair of dreadlocked twins playing guitar and smoking weed by the dirty graffiti wall in a corner of the street looked on curiously.

The chauffeur slid out of the car smoothly. “Miss Fedorov,” he greeted, as he opened the door nearest the sidewalk for me.

Far from happy at the disruption from my wonderfully ordinary life, I got in and began to count the minutes when I would stand before my father.

The Ritz-Carlton was by Central Park. The moment I stepped into the sophistication of its world, far beyond the one I currently lived in, I felt the familiar chokehold of the old life that I had tried so hard to tear free of begin to reassert itself. I walked into the breakfast lounge. It featured an oriental color scheme. The high windows gave a picturesque view of the city’s magnificent skyline. The exquisite furniture and paintings reminded me of our home back in Moscow. I could see my father’s goons hanging around the lobby. They were trying to blend in with the other guests, but they stuck out like sore thumbs.

I made my way to the breakfast room.

It was expansive, filled with the scent of expensive coffee roast and the fragrance of flowers. Breakfasting in it were a smattering of people engaged in quiet conversations. I spotted my father in a corner table quite hidden by a gigantic plant that was so incredibly green it looked fake. Of course, it was not. As usual my father was on his phone.

“Printsessa,” he called loudly the moment he noticed me. I cringed inwardly when people turned to look at us. My father had no use for customs or niceties. They were fools, he declared.

He ended his call and rose to receive me. Dutifully I walked into his large embrace. Shutting my eyes, I inhaled his familiar scent. The components of which were indecipherable as they had been carefully curated by a man who specialized in custom perfumes. Except, of course, for the jarring note from the cigars that he often had either in his mouth or dangling from his fingers.

For some strange reason, I suddenly thought of my mother.

“Sit,” he said and I took the seat opposite him wondering why there was another by my side.

In his world everything was for a reason so I immediately called his attention to it. “Are you expecting someone else?”

He blatantly ignored the question and he regarded me critically. “You’re thinner, moya Printsessa,” he said. “Why are you living this way?”

“I’m fine, Papa.” I smiled at the waitress as she came over, grateful for the interruption.

I didn’t want him to know how nervous I was so I went all out and put in my order for eggs, a Belgian waffle, a bagel and cream cheese ensemble, and some yoghurt topped with berries and flax seed, and Assam tea.

When the waitress went away with our orders he watched me curiously. His black eyes unreadable.

“Your account remains untouched,” he said. “And you’re sharing an apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods. I also received reports that you now work in a low-class bar at night?”

My mouth felt dry and I wished I had ordered some orange juice. “I’m happy where I am.”

“I disapprove,” he said sternly.

In my mind, I muttered my response. I don’t care whether you approve or not. Before he could keep going I quickly took my turn to ask the questions. “Why are you staying for such a short time?”