Chapter 1
Zoya Belov
My breath comes out in short pants, cold sweat spreads through my back. My fingers burn painfully, but I don’t stop scrubbing my hands over the red, so much red. The more I scrub, the more it spreads, significantly lighter but catching more of the surface of my fingers, palms, and the back of my hand. The white, fluffy rug has a giant red blotch on it, it can’t be saved. I could throw it out in the bin, but it had a small but heavy marbled table sitting on top. I can’t possibly move the table, pull the rug, and throw it out without them knowing. Everything in my large, spacious bedroom was designed to perfection. The absence of a rug will turn eyes among the house helps and even if they turn a blind eye to it, the eyes of the media that follow my every moment will not.
My heart thudded painfully against my chest as footsteps sounded outside my door. Tears began to pool in my eyes, the red looked almost non-existent against the blur. For one moment, I yielded to temptation, stealing what didn’t belong to me, and god decided to make an example out of me. A knock sounded on my bedroom door, and I shouted at them to wait outside, my voice quivering against the heap of emotions. The room reeked of rubbing alcohol, hand sanitiser, vinegar and vodka. One shot costs about 50 dollars, and I have used plenty. The knock became more frequent and louder with every second ticking.
I cradle my head in my hands as Angela’s voice came from outside the door, her voice carrying every bit of frustration she feels my way. She has the master key to all the rooms. I only have seconds to get my bearings together. I wiped the tears from my eyes, my vodka-laden fingers touched my eyes, and I winced. More tears gathered as my eyes twitched. My fingers burned painfully with a pulsating sensation running through them. The knob rattled, and I stood straight to meet the inevitable as Angela thundered inside.
She has smooth, dark brown skin and intelligent dark eyes trained on me. Her features are elegant rather than delicate, sharpened further by the permanent look of disapproval she seemed to wear. She flipped her shoulder-length, silk-pressed hair back and peered at my oversized t-shirt and short shorts from head to toe. Her heels clicked over the mahogany wooden flooring as she came closer, taking in the crime scene.
Today she wore dark loose pants and a floral printed top that makes her ample bust appear smaller. My friends say that she looked 40 in her 30s and 30 in her 40s, it is a backhanded compliment. My lips parted to compliment her for something to steer her attention, but her angry eyes made me take a step back.
“Do I need to ask, Miss Belov?” Angela asked, quirking her laminated brows. Her words were respectful, but the tone and the condescending timber in them made me shiver. She has been with the Belov family for the past 10 years, and barely looked my way before. As the image consultant of my father, Senator Vikor Belov, and my mom, Svetlana Belov, she had always been extremely professional, unlike the other people working in my father’s party, the People’s First Alliance. She has never shared words with me unless it’s absolutely necessary. But then my father learned that foreign sources had been making an alliance to dethrone him. He warned that there would be several cases of sabotage, and we needed to be careful with our appearance. Angela suggested that I take a year off after high school. That was a year ago, though I didn’t see any such sabotage happening.
I bunched my fingers and curled my toes, but in vain. I only had time to work on my toenails. Angela typed furiously, the crisp sound of tapping on her phone was always on. I don’t know when it started, but the sound always made me wanna throw up.
“Stacey will be here in 5. Go! Get changed.” I flinch at the venom in her voice. A young girl standing statued outside my room wheeled the dresses and shoes inside. She was new here, and I didn’t know her name. Lately, there have been many frequent changes in the house help staff.
I gave her a small smile as she ducked her head and scurried out like she didn’t see the state of the room. “She didn’t meet your eyes. You should have used your words because your actions…” Angela trails.
Actions! Anger surged through my veins. Tina and the others smoked weed and tried alcohol they stole from her father’s office. Sabrina drank half a bottle of tequila and threw up in a fountain. They all had secret relationships and flings. Their father and mother are close associates of the party as well.
“It’s not like I did drugs…” I said in a small voice, though I intended to have venom in my voice, it came out as a plea. Riley made out with a dry long fusillI pasta, Tina sneaked in her boyfriend through the window, and Hannah and Kim made out. They were all caught and got away with a slap on their wrist.
“Maybe I should make you pee in a cup next…” My head whipped to look at her in shock, and shame washed over me. The new girl must have heard her. Angela is never quite when she has a statement to make.
“Are you gonna tell about this….” I ask, fidgeting, carrying my weight from one foot to the other.
“You tell me, Miss Belov. How would it reflect on me when I tell Mr and Mrs Belov that after taking the party’s reputation to zenith, I was failed by an 18-year-old,” She spoke with no emotion in her voice.
Two months back, I overheard them discussing me. Angela was worried I would turn out to be a loose cannon, as a result, Dad appointed her as my image consultant and hired other people for himself and Mom. Angela was furious, whilst everyone thought she would resign. Ever since, she has become so strict with me that I feel trapped in my own body. I am going to turn 19 soon and go to college. There are a million things that could go wrong, and here I was proving her point. My friends get to stay at my house for sleepovers, but I am not allowed to go to theirs, until last week. Angela had indicated that the night out could go wrong.
She came around me to take a closer look as she circled me like a predator. The toppled bottles, the thick smell that made the air heavy to breathe, and a small container of hot red nail paint I stole from my friend’s house. I thought I could apply them to my nails at night and remove them after admiring them and taking some pictures. But Dad called me to his office to brief me about today’s press meet.
I was so glad that I could hide my nails from him the entire 2 hours I was there that I forgot I had them on and slept. This morning, when I woke, the gel paint was not just there on the nails, the bottle had also rolled down the table onto the white rug. I only had half an hour. At the nail salon, they use a UV lamp to dry them off. I thought I could have them on for some time, then easily remove them. Obviously, I’m wrong.
After the inventory of the scene, she was almost out of the room, but my happiness was short-lived as she turned around. “Girls look up to you, Zoya. You’re their idol… in the world of OnlyFans girls, and you are a pick of the litter… A testament to Viktor and Svetlana Belov’s noble upbringing. What do you think would happen if they saw you wearing that ugly red colour on your nails? You’re gonna turn 19 now… you’re a woman, not a girl. I expected better from you… We expected better from you—”
I was saved by a heaving, sweat-covered Stacy as she came into my room, almost bumping into her boss, Angela. Stacy has been here for 3 years now. And I am the second person, after Stacy, to fear Angela. Stacy is 5’7 and built like an athlete, and Angela is 5’3. On one look, it looks like Stacy can chew Angela, but she doesn’t, she has bills to pay, and I… I have always done what was told to me to do.
Stacy took my hand gently in hers, and a chill ran down my spine as the cold nail polish remover spread on my nails. She got on her haunches as she moved to my toes. I felt too numb to refuse her help. Angela looked down at her intern with a sadistic smirk in her eyes. I pursed my lips as she walked towards my bed to examine the clothes chosen, picked up by the family’s personal shopper, and the style carefully picked by Angela herself.
A dark green knife pleated skirt, which ended mid-thigh, over it I often wore a white or a light-coloured, tight-fitted shirt and a sleeveless sweater or a long jacket that ended an inch above my skirt. Today, it was a sleeveless black sweater. Paired with loafers that would do nothing to increase the posture of my 5’4 height. The kind of clothes that cover the real shape of my bubble butt and the double D’s.
It has always been like this…, but lately I crave something else, something different… something Riley would react to with a fire emoji… Kim would demand an intervention, Hannah would call it just another Tuesday, something Tina would announce rebellious, something I would feel as breathtaking, something my family would see as… trouble.
