Chapter One
A lot of people, including my brother and two best friends might argue with me about this (like, all the time), but I refuse to call my life boring.
The thing is I grew up poor in one of South Carolina’s roughest neighborhoods. And after my mother died of cancer when I was eighteen, I had to figure out how to take care of myself and my older brother. Trust, I got over the “excitement,” of not knowing how I would both eat and pay my brother’s college bills real quick.
My two best friends and fellow former beauty queens, Cynda and Gina, love to tease me about how I only entered the South Carolina beauty pageant for the scholarship money. And I know a lot of other state princesses are still coasting through life on their looks. But I figured out from early on that being pretty only got you so far in the world.
My prettier-than-average face and dance background had been enough to get me a position as an NFL cheerleader for my brother’s team, the Carolina Leopards. And I enjoyed cheering, but I can’t tell you how annoying it was to put up with the nasty catcalls from the stands. Even worse were the constant come-ons from football players who were not even allowed to date us cheerleaders.
They never believed me when I not only refused to break the rules to be with them, but also told them that I had no interest whatsoever in dating an athlete. I mean, why would I? From what I could see, guys who played sports for a living were all men children who partied too much and spent their too-large incomes on stupid things.
Believe me, cheerleading got real old after a few years, and I was more than happy to use my state pageant winnings to pivot into a career in accounting.
And I don’t care what my brother and his friends say about my career change. Oh how Cynda and Gina keep badgering me to let down my hair and have more fun. After the way I grew up, there is nothing more thrilling in my opinion than having a stable job at one of Charleston’s biggest accounting firms and owning a two bedroom/two and a half bath condo in West Ashley—with garage parking!
Not only that, but I’m set to take the CPA exam in June. And as for having more fun, check this out. I just signed up for a new dating platform called BizHarmony. Unlike those hookup apps, which I can’t stand, BizHarmony caters to practical and stable business professionals looking for practical and stable relationships. That means by the end of the summer, I might not only be a certified public accountant, but also dating someone who shares my exact same values.
How exciting is that? I mean, if someone had shown teenage me where I am now, she’d be jumping up and down with joy.
So no, I’d argue that my life isn’t boring at all.
But still, I do begin the first weekend of March yawning.
And I can’t stop yawning as I listen to Ultralearning by Scott Young on my kitchen’s smart speaker while scrubbing the dishes my brother left in the sink.
I’m not yawning because scrubbing caked on food off dinnerware is boring—although I can’t stress enough what a pain in the ass it is to wake up to find dirty dishes in my usually immaculate kitchen. Scott Young also isn’t responsible for my current state of tiredness. Believe me, I need all the help I can get if I want to pass my CPA exam. So I’m paying real close attention to his theories on how to optimize my study time.
It’s just that it’s four in the morning, and no matter what I tell my body about the early bird getting the worm—and passing the CPA exam in June—it’s still protesting and yawning.
“You seem tired. Did you have a late night too, Princess South Carolina?”
I freeze, the hair standing up on the back of my neck.
Because the person who asked me that question isn’t my brother, Clem.
Whoever it is has an accent, but it’s a lot less country than my North Charleston born and raised brother. And way more dangerous, because it belongs to a stranger.
My stomach becomes rock hard, and it feels like my heart is about to explode in my chest. There’s a stranger. In my house. Calling me Princess South Carolina.
I swallow. I’d heard about things like stalkers from other Queen America contestants, but I didn’t even make it to the big pageant’s quarter-finals. I’m not 100% sure they ran my full package in the live broadcast since I never bothered to watch it. And most people don’t recognize me here in Charleston like they do my friend Cynda all over St. Louis, and in Guadalajara, the small Missouri town she returned to after her father died. Maybe I was being naïve and stupid, but I never thought something like this would happen to me.
However, it is happening to me. Right now. There’s a stranger in my kitchen, standing right behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I turn around.
The man is about the same height as me. Five foot eight. Maybe a few inches taller. But where I’m toned and fit from the YouTube yoga and Just Dance workouts I force myself to do a few times a week, he’s bulked out under his leather jacket. I can’t tell whether it’s fat or muscle.
I’m betting muscle though. Possibly gained during a stint in prison. I’m pretty sure his accent is Russian, and he’s got that jet-black hair/craggy skin combo that older gangsters seem to favor in the movies.
But we’re not in the movies. This is real life. Happening to me.
I feel like there is a rope tightening around my throat, cutting off my breathing. Oh, God, there’s some kind of mobster/burglar/killer here. In my house. And I have no idea if my brother heard him come in.
My eyes cut to the butcher block I keep tucked away next to the double oven for the rare night when I have time to make a meal.
“I would not do that if I were you,” The stranger advises. He sounds both amused and disappointed. “I am old man who still appreciate pretty girls. And if you fight me, I might have to make your face not so pretty.”
To punctuate his point, he opens his jacket just enough to reveal a holstered gun hidden beneath.
There’s a stranger in my house and now he’s threatening me. With a gun!
I can feel the beat of my heart against my tongue. And I try to swallow, but saliva? I don’t have an ounce of it in my throat. “Who are you? Why are you here in my house?”
“I’m an employee of someone your brother owes a lot of money,” he answers, his tone almost gentle. Almost kind.
But not quite.
“Clem?” I ask. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I have any other brothers. “But I thought he was in the back asleep.”
The old thug throws me a look that makes me feel both pitied and stupid.
“No, he is currently at my boss’s residence, awaiting your arrival. And if you want what is best for both you and your brother, you will come with me, Princess South Carolina. No fight.”
Chapter Two
I step out of an elevator that opens into a sleek black and grey hallway. Then the thug who introduced himself as Vlad while directing me which way to drive from the passenger seat of my own car escorts me down the short corridor into a gorgeous penthouse apartment.
I find my brother sitting on one of the couches in the sunken den living room.
“I’m sorry, baby sis. I’m so sorry!” he says, jumping to his feet as soon as we come through the door.
Vlad tuts and crosses the room to shove Clem back down on the couch. “Yes, you should be sorry, causing your poor sister so much unnecessary distress. But right now, we will wait here quietly for Mr. Rustanov to finish the rest of his game.”