The Imposed Girl
7 hrs. 50 min.
Language
Russian
Author
Ana Sacru
Author
Ana Sacru
Narrator
Victoria Tomina
Narrator
Victoria Tomina
Description
“Come in,” an authoritative voice calls from the other side.
I open the door, neither alive nor dead. From nerves, the floor seems to swim before my eyes—the socks on my shoes—while I hurry into the center of the office.
I freeze by the drawing of the central flower on the carpet. I look at several pairs of men’s legs in trousers. So which of them belongs to my future husband?
God, I don’t want to know this…
My uncle comes up close. Like a dog, he ruffles me on the cheek and forces me to look into his eyes.
“Handsome girl,” he smirks, then carelessly nods behind him. “Meet Natalia. Bulat Yevgenyevich Terekhоv—your husband soon.”
I follow the direction of his gaze… And I’m suddenly burned with such heat it feels like I’ll start smoking right now.
With a casual gesture, Terekhоv adjusts his suit jacket and takes a step toward me. His lips curve into a cynical smirk.
“Nice to meet you, Natalia…”
“Your modest niece, yes, Alan Firadovich?” he drawls—with sarcasm that only makes sense to the two of us.
And my blood freezes with fear that he’ll tell what he knows about yesterday.
I open the door, neither alive nor dead. From nerves, the floor seems to swim before my eyes—the socks on my shoes—while I hurry into the center of the office.
I freeze by the drawing of the central flower on the carpet. I look at several pairs of men’s legs in trousers. So which of them belongs to my future husband?
God, I don’t want to know this…
My uncle comes up close. Like a dog, he ruffles me on the cheek and forces me to look into his eyes.
“Handsome girl,” he smirks, then carelessly nods behind him. “Meet Natalia. Bulat Yevgenyevich Terekhоv—your husband soon.”
I follow the direction of his gaze… And I’m suddenly burned with such heat it feels like I’ll start smoking right now.
With a casual gesture, Terekhоv adjusts his suit jacket and takes a step toward me. His lips curve into a cynical smirk.
“Nice to meet you, Natalia…”
“Your modest niece, yes, Alan Firadovich?” he drawls—with sarcasm that only makes sense to the two of us.
And my blood freezes with fear that he’ll tell what he knows about yesterday.
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