Pretty lovely lies, p.1
Pretty Lovely Lies, page 1
Pretty Lovely Lies
A Dark Romance
Heidi Stark
Copyright © 2024 by Heidi Stark.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locations and incidents are either the products of the author's wild imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
. Chapter
Dedication
Before
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Epilogue
Also By
Acknowledgements
"A gilded cage is still a cage"
– Lady Hale
To everyone willing to swim through a sea of red flags
just to find the smut
Before
Alina
The chill bites into my bones as I peel back the edge of a greasy pizza box, my heart thumping against my ribs. Yara's small hands, nearly lost inside the sleeves of her too-thin coat, rummage beside mine, disturbing the rotting waste that fills the dumpster. Me and my daughter, once again scavenging for scraps, because that’s our life now. Our new normal.
"Mama, I'm hungry," she murmurs, her voice muffled by the layers of clothing that are barely enough to keep the cold at bay.
I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting back the sting of tears. "I know, sweetheart. Me too. We'll find something soon, I promise." The words come out more confidently than I feel, even though my stomach is hollow.
Yara nods, her bright eyes scanning the decaying trash with an intensity that shreds my heart. She shouldn't have to do this—no child should. No human should. And yet, here we are, our lives reduced to this moment, this heartbreaking necessity.
The stench of spoiled food and despair hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the fetid odor. We’re shadows in the encroaching dusk. Ghosts that aim to blend into the background as we take only what we absolutely need. It's never wise to stand out here, for any reason, let alone when you're unprotected and vulnerable. Alone.
The guilt gnaws at me, sharp-toothed and relentless. My Yara, who once knew warmth and fullness, now digs through garbage because of me. Because I chose to run from a gilded cage, where danger was served right next to untold wealth and other things dreams are made of. Unfortunately, sometimes the more we learn about dreams, the more we realize they're actually nightmares.
"Did you find anything yet?" she asks, hopeful. Her eyes light up as she pulls out a half-squashed loaf of bread and turns it in her hand to admire it like it's treasure.
"Good job, baby." Pride wrestles with the pain in my chest. She's so strong, my little girl—too strong for her tender years. But it's my fault she has to be.
"Let's check if it's still okay to eat," I say, brushing off the worst of the dirt and other debris, inspecting it for signs of mold or spoilage.
Her stomach growls, a small sound of suffering that stabs at me. I tear a piece off, examining it in the fading light before handing it to her.
"Here, eat this while we look for more."
She bites into it, a muffled thanks escaping between chews, and my soul cracks a little deeper. Polite and well-behaved, even while she's starving. I'd imagined a different life for us, one filled with laughter and love, not lurking in the shadows, hungry and hiding.
I have to make this right—for Yara. I'll build us a new life, far from the clutches of men like Luchenko, whose opulent meals were laced with silent and not-so-silent threats, punishments and obligations. This is all on me, and I won't let her down.
"Thank you, Mama. That tasted really good," she says after she finishes her bite, her voice a beacon in the gloom. I don’t deserve her politeness, her appreciation. This little girl, so pleased with a stale piece of bread out of the dumpster, for goodness' sake. It’s just not right. I draw her close, wrapping an arm around her narrow shoulders, vowing to myself that this will be the last time I hear her stomach roar.
"Come on, my sweet girl," I whisper, kissing the top of her head. "Let's keep looking."
Together, we turn back to the task at hand, searching for sustenance in a world that seems determined to break us. But we won't shatter, not as long as we have each other.
The cold seeps through my threadbare coat as I rummage deeper into the refuse, and my fingers are numb.
Despite being bundled in every layer she owns, Yara shivers beside me, her small form huddled against the harsh cold. Streetlights flicker above, casting long shadows across the alley that seem to mock our desperation.
"Remember when we lived with Luchenko? We had nice food, Mama," Yara's voice trembles, not just from the cold but from a longing for a past that was never truly ours.
A lump forms in my throat as her words trigger a flood of memories, and because I know that her mention of his name must mean she's really starving.
I feel some relief that she calls him by his last name, not the more conventional title he prefers. Grateful that children are like mirrors, reflecting what they hear often enough that they eventually start saying it themselves and even come to believe it.
Grateful that Yara is a smart girl, fascinated by long words she can roll around in her mouth, rather than simpler sounds like 'dada'.
The grand dining room under Luchenko's roof, where silver platters overflowed with delicacies, is a stark contrast to the scraps we claw at now. But those meals came at a price, because under each nourishing, delicious bite lingered the taste of fear and control.
"I know, baby." My voice is steady, but inside, I'm reeling, struggling against the guilt that threatens to overwhelm me. "But that came with its own dangers..."
I push aside the memory of Luchenko's steely gray eyes watching us from the head of the table, a silent threat in his every glance. His presence, a suffocating force that turned every nutritious dinner into an act of survival. His cruelness, unrelenting.
The way he began to look at Yara as she grew older, unsettling. Revolting, even. I try not to think about those times, and I pray she never remembers the darkness we emerged from. Let her remember the good food, the warmth of the heaters, having her very own room. The abundance of clothing and toys and music that made her feel spirited and carefree.
Yara looks up at me, the innocence in her eyes tearing at my resolve. "Are we going to be okay, Mama?" I know she doesn't ask me these questions to make me feel worse. She feels a joint sense of ownership with me, an obligation far beyond her years to help get us both out of this situation and into something more stable and secure.
"Hey, look at me." I tilt her chin up, forcing a smile that feels like it might shatter. "You deserve a true childhood, away from all this. I’ll make us a better life. Just give me a little more time."
Her eyes search mine, seeking the promise of security and warmth I've vowed to provide. "Okay, Mama."
"Good girl." I squeeze her close, her small body a fragile reminder of what's at stake. "Let’s go home," I say, although I use the word loosely. "We’ll figure something out. We always do, right?"
"Right," she echoes, a ghost of a smile on her lips, mirroring my own forced optimism.
We walk back through the desolate streets toward our rickety encampment, past buildings that wear their decay like badges of honor. I fear I’m beginning to have far too much in common with them, and I refuse to let Yara succumb to the same fate.
With each step, I reaffirm my vow to build a future where Yara can thrive—a world away from the shadows of men like Luchenko. One where she never again needs to worry about where her next meal is coming from, or about having shoes on her feet. Or about the dangerous men who lurk in the shadows, waiting to pounce when she's in direst need.
In the quiet that follows, I feel her hand slip into mine—a small lifeline amidst the uncertainty. I squeeze it gently, and in that simple touch lies the weight of all the love and determination I possess.
We'll get through this, together.
Even if it kills me, as it has nearly done so many times.
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Chapter 1
Alina
Irap softly on the intricate, mahogany front door of Dominika’s house, my heart drumming with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. This place always feels like stepping into another world—one where the shadows of our past don't linger in the corners, waiting to leap out. An ode to our former life, but without the toxic dangers.
The door swings open, revealing Dominika in all her polished grace.
The sight of her is a comfort. Her sharp, high cheekbones and icy blue eyes would normally intimidate, especially with the way her meticulously microbladed eyebrows boldly frame her face and her full lips exude a perpetually knowing look. But to me, they spell friendship and understanding. The unspoken bond of our shared childhood experience has tethered us together through many storms, and always will.
There was a time when I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to ever come here again or resume my friendship with Dominika, given how things were left off what feels like forever ago. But it’s not her fault she’s related to… him.
"Alina, darling! Come in, come in!" Dominika exclaims, her voice echoing off the marble floors. I step inside, the warmth from the grand foyer wrapping around me like a plush blanket.
She leads me through the hallways adorned with expensive art, to a sunlit parlor where a table is set with a platter of scones and a delicate porcelain teapot. It's surreal, this opulence, compared to our scrappy childhood homes. And compared to the homelessness Yara and I experienced until recently.
"Sit down, make yourself comfortable," Dominika gestures towards a velvet chair, her gold bracelets clinking softly. She pours tea into two intricately decorated porcelain cups, the steam curling up like little spirits dancing.
“So he knows I’m here? I was scared to come, but you insisted…”
“Listen, I don’t delve into my brother-in-law’s mind because that’s a scary place for anyone. But I do know he’s busy wrapping up a big business deal overseas. One of his key men is threatening a mutiny of sorts, and Marie is giving him a hell of a time. He won’t have a spare moment to give you a second thought.”
I smirk at the thought of such a powerful man facing such simple struggles as a nagging wife whom he can’t seem to get rid of. Even the wealthy put their pants on one leg at a time.
"One thing is certain. I need to get us out of here. I can’t keep putting her through this,” I confess, staring into the golden liquid, my thoughts drifting to Yara’s innocent face and the darkness that seems to follow us.
The irony, sitting here with the sister-in-law of the man who caused so much of our pain. But sometimes, we become the closest friends with the blood of our enemies. We’re drawn to what repels us. It's a counterintuitive survival mechanism.
“You know, I’ve been thinking of you, Alina," Dominika says, her voice warm despite her clipped speaking manner. "Brainstorming ways to get you both out of this situation.”
“Well, I’m all ears," I sigh. "I’ve done everything I can think of. Reached out to agencies, applied for every type of assistance I could find." I look down. "Even panhandled. It at least got us into some fairly stable housing and I was able to find a part-time job, but that could be taken away at any moment and it's hardly enough to make ends meet. I can’t risk having the rug pulled out from under Yara again, or your brother-in-law changing his mind.”
I shiver at the thought. Luchenko is cruel. He likes nothing more than putting me on a leash, letting me think that I’m free, and then yanking me back roughly just when I think I have the chance of truly getting away from him. And I worry that as Yara gets older, his sadistic streak is only going to get worse. There’s no way I would put her through what I was forced to endure. No fucking way.
Dominika reaches across the table, her hand warm on mine. "I do have an idea for you, actually. You could try online dating. Find an American man who will take care of you. Eva did that, and now she’s happily married with three American babies and a massive mansion in the United States. Just think… wouldn’t that solve all your problems?” Her eyes shine with a mixture of hope and concern. “You’d be far away, and under someone else’s protection. Not even my brother-in-law would be able to fuck with you with those kind of resources under your fingertips.”
I sigh. “I suppose there’s a chance I could find someone that way. It’s just….”.
“Just what, Alina? I have all the patience in the world for you—you know that—but you’re running out of options. You’re doing so much better than last time I saw you, but like you say, it feels impermanent. Luchenko is unpredictable. I regret every day that I can’t do more, but as you know, things are… complicated.”
Dominika is the queen of understatements. My childhood best friend, from the worst part of town just like me, but she took a very different path. Marrying her childhood sweetheart didn't sound like a runway to financial success, but he joined a powerful enterprise and quickly worked his way up the ranks. Alongside his stepbrother. His cruel stepbrother, Luchenko, who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Dominika is one of the lucky ones, that's for sure.
“You’re so lucky, meeting Aleksandr when you were both so young. High school sweethearts.” I smile to emphasize I'm truly happy for my friend. I could never resent her for being with a good man, or having a life that seems like the polar opposite of everything bad about mine.
“I know,” Dominika smiles, but it’s small, as if her successes make her feel guilty. “Not many people get to say they met the love of their life when they were both so young. Or that they can live in a place like this with everything they need. I’m grateful every day. I just want you to find the same happiness. Especially after all you’ve been through.”
My brain mulls over Dominika’s suggestion of meeting an American man online, and immediately begins to fill in the blanks with lots of ‘what if’ scenarios. It's something I've considered before, but there have always been reasons I've pushed the idea out of my head. Just like, until now, I've pushed aside ideas like dancing in a club or setting up some kind of webcam business. Still, things are becoming increasingly desperate as Yara gets older. I need to open my mind, to consider options that were previously closed off.
“But what about my mother?” The worry for her wellbeing has etched permanent lines on my forehead. “If she’s still here, Luchenko could use her as a pawn. You know how he can get when he doesn't know where I am for any period of time. I can’t let her be treated like that. I’ll be terrified the entire time I’m over there. Who knows how low he would sink if he felt like he could never reach us again?”
“You can bring her with you," my friend shrugs. "She might have to wait for a while, for immigration processes to go through. But you’ll be able to fly her over to live with you eventually.” Dominika's voice is reassuring, but it doesn't quite reach the tight knot of fear in my chest.
I think about my mother, aging in her cramped apartment. She’s always taken care of me as best as she could, and I’m embarrassed I haven’t been able to return the favor in her later years. There were many times she snuck Yara and I into her tiny residence in the government-run eldercare facility, even when it could have risked her being thrown out onto the streets herself. When she insisted on sharing her meager food rations when she risks running out herself. I find myself distancing myself from her occasionally so she doesn't put herself at risk for me and Yara. Compared to her, we're young and capable, resourceful, and I hate to lean on someone who also has nothing.
“But how do I know I can trust these men online?” The question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it, revealing the quiver of uncertainty beneath my brave mask. "I could be leaving one problem for another, just far away from everything and everyone I know."
“How do you know you can trust the men you meet in person? Is that really any better, or more of a guarantee they’ll treat you well?” Dominika counters, her bold eyebrows knitting together in gentle reproach. “I think we both know that’s not the case.”
Her eyes scan toward a photo on the mantel, a family picture that I always try not to focus on. She’s right, though. I met Luchenko in person, in what could be described as a more traditional way, and look where that got me. That said, if all of the horrible things hadn’t happened, Yara wouldn’t exist. So, despite the pain I had to endure, I wouldn’t change anything for the world.
