*Mia's P.O.V *

At least, Reindorf matches my wrath for Anton's actions. He had no idea since Granny Pom had the board on an oath of secrecy.

"That scumbag," Reindorf retorts, "By the way, the auction is in two days."

"Oh, ok." How did it escape my mind?

To make up for it, I join his entourage to meet his bank advisors the next day. Sheila and I get along now, so the journey is endurable. His other partners, on the other hand, still deem me a Yeltsin, even though I have warned everyone not to call me that. When we return, I make dinner for everyone. Reindorf secludes himself, so I take his upstairs, only to find the man agitated among piles of financial records in his study.

"Relax." I say, "Dude, you haven't even eaten -"

"Not hungry."

"Well -"

"Mia!" He glares.

I wince.

"You're gonna spill on my files!"

"Sorry!" I haven't set the food down, and I'm nowhere close to his files. They stay black and white on the table as if to mock my suddenly soiled top.

"You-" He facepalms. "Just take it away. And talk properly. Can't be calling dignitaries 'dude' tomorrow."

"Wasn't planning to." I snort.

"I got you a dress for tomorrow. It's in your room."

"Thanks. Are you alright -"

Another glare. I take the tray away, hoping whatever is bothering him isn't that serious. Today went well, so nothing comes to mind as a reason.

*

Time transports us to two hours before the auction, at what seems like the event of the year - a trade fair centre with massive windows and so many dignitaries that I feel small. It doesn't help that Reindorf only introduces me as his fiancée, when I look like I can be his child.

After two of such interactions, Reindorf chuckles at my nervousness, suggesting I get us our number tag. I oblige. Before I can return, though, a wardrobe malfunction drags me to the washroom. The gown he bought me - a backless, low-neckline emerald one - hugs my body tight on the lower half and loose from above, making it look off.

If not for the effort Reindorf put, I wouldn't wear this. And the heels are killing my feet.

I am about to retie my straps when a pair of wrinkled palms do.

"Hello, dear." Granny makes a bow.

I snort. Her palms move to the faucet, turning it on as she says, "Congrats on the presentation again."

No response.

"Where's your husband?"

"Fiancé," I correct. "Why do you ask?"

"So you can help me speak some sense into him." She beams. When I fail to react again, she adds, "I need the land."

"For ... ?" The project? Won't that be in Manchester?

"Build another home for the kids recently rescued."

"Oh, fuck off."

"That's what he said." She rinses her hands. "What a shame you both bestow such a bad temper. I'm glad that at least my great grand baby will be more refined, intelligent, and of unmatched beauty."

Huh?

"You are delusional. Good luck with the auction," I reply with a smirk, "and with representing your daughter's killer."

I don't bother checking her reaction as I flip my hair in her face on my way out.

Soon, it is announced that the auction has commences. Filling an auditorium with CEOs, CFOs, ambassadors, diplomats, multinationals and conglomerates is no joke - I'll have to commend the organisers. There's media coverage for some reason, causing the host to look more at the cameras than his audience. He reads out the history of the land and its importance before mentioning the lowest face value first.

Granny's tag goes up. "3K."

"3.5," screams another guy.

Reindorf sips champagne. "Your grandmother looks confused."

"4K." I don't know who says this, but it starts a crescendo of digits erupting to and fro. The host calls them to order, raising the bidding limit to a million.

Now, Reindorf lifts his tag. We tilt our heads, waiting for Granny to contend. If she does, others won't.

"1.4," says some minister's son.

"5 million."

Ok, maybe don't spend all your money on land, Reindorf.

"Going once. Going twice... Sold to Mr. MACMILLAN!"

Is this a win? It seems like it, judging from the applause. I move aside so press can take pictures of Reindorf.

Before I know it, the media is brandishing him. I move away from the crowd, only to bump into my grandmother.

"Ok, if you are about to congratulate me again -" I am cut off by her palm ...

Slapping me.

Gasps erupt. I exhale; my cheek stings hot red with embarrassment. The urge to return the gesture inundates me, but a quick glance at our audience alters my mind.

Their eyes are on Granny, not me.

*

It's uncouth to tarnish a glorious aura of wealth and prestige by airing your dirty laundry. Granny forgot that. The media doesn't.

I am the pitied granddaughter, though I've not spoken a word to anyone about it. When I'm beckoned to the Yeltsin mansion, it is no surprise to see Granny Pom back in her prim nature. Her husband seats the two of us and croaks.

"My wife would like to apologise for her misdemeanour, right?"

Granny nods, eyes on the air above my head.

"Public displays of you happily enjoying each other's company might suffice to silence rumours."

"Oh, ok, Grandpa." I pout. "We can do that -"

"Excellent-"

"On the condition that you let Pamela pay for her crimes."

My grandpa frowns. "What... crimes?"

"Honey, it's alright," Granny Pom says, rubbing his back and addressing me with a tense stare. "I'll handle it."

"Mm. Trust you will, Granny. We can hang out while preparing for my wedding."

That said, I kiss her on the cheek and leave. My mood lightens from then on... until Reindorf receives a mail stating that the nomination window for the CEO position will close by Sunday.

How can we plan the grandest wedding in a week?

*
^
*
Past for Charlie's P.O.V

Granny Pompom let me kiss her cheek, but the instant I left, her fists clenched. Her husband blinked with lethargy, furthering her rage. After trying to reach Joe to no avail, Grandma Pompom drove to the Palviokinsky mansion.

There, she learned that the place had a new owner, Charlie. Still, Granny figured out where Pamela could be. She followed her to a hotel and waited.

Half an hour lapsed before Granny entered the hotel. She paid the receptionists and whoever she could to clear out of the way. An elevator got her to the right suite just in time to catch Monet and Pamela.

"Call him -"

"I'm trying! He's not picking," Monet lamented with an annoyed look.

"Let me -" Before Pamela could snatch Monet's phone, Granny entered with gloves. The three women stare at one another, Monet being the most confused.

Granny swiftly jabbed a syringe into Pamela's neck, earning a strangled cuss on the daughter in law's way to the floor. Monet yelped, but before she could run, a knife swung into her.

Her eyes bulge as Granny lowered her to the ground, beside Pamela. Granny seized their phones, placed the knife in Pamela's palms, and turned to say to Monet, "If you make it...."

Slowly, as she listened, Monet's tears fell on her quivering tight lips.

*

*

Granny's next stop was Mr. Cavill's. By then, his wife, Mrs Cavill, was feeding their Pomeranian. Granny had to clap to get her attention.

Once the husband arrived, she sat them down on their couch and played with their dog on the floor. Mr. Cavill looked down at her, scared.

"To what do I owe this visit, ma'am?"

"You stole from us."

"P-pardon me?"

Granny stood. "You stole from us. When my husband implored me to forgive you, I thought it was because you were good friends. But that's not the case, is it?"

Mr. Cavill's shoulders shuddered.

Granny smiled, marched to their kitchen, and brought out a knife. "Does he have anything to do with my daughter's death?"

"Ma'am! How can you say that -"

She slit the dog's neck.

Instantly, Mrs. Cavill fainted, whereas Granny Pom whipped her husband with her pet, splashing blood all over.

Mr. Cavill could say he had no other choice than to admit it.

*

♤

*

*Charlie's P.O.V*

As if life isn't overbearing already, I get a call that Monet has been stabbed.

My hair is a nest of dishevelled horror at the hospital. I tug at it, waiting, praying.

When the doctor comes with good news, I feel like a truck un- run into me. With no family around, I am allowed to see her.

"Hey."

"You," is her spiteful retort.

I gulp, moving to a chair beside her. A pause ensues as she looks to the sky, repelling her tears. Our eyes finally meet, and she wipes her eyelids, saying, "The video is gone. You don't have to be here."

"I'm sorry." I really am. Pamela wouldn't have stabbed her if not for me.

"You are not listening, Charlie."

"I promise it won't ever happen again. Pamela has been arrested, and I-I will protect you -"

"No need." She wiggles her finger in both directions. "You didn't tell me you were fighting actual fucking demons and now you want me to believe you got it handled? What's wrong with you?."

"It's -"

"I am not dying for your skinny ass."

"Monet -"

Monet clenches her fist. "Get out."

I flinch, my heartbeat syncing with her heart rate monitor.

*

At least she lets me pay for her hospital bills. I phone our modelling agency, and arrange her flight back.

I try not to dwell on her outburst, though it's worrying. I will have to find time to look into her assault after my mission.

Yes, the FBI agent has assigned me my first undercover mission on a ship.

I have Mr. Palviokinsky's bodyguard to handle matters with the inheritance since the man won't let me donate all out. That's at the back of my mind too.

I need space. I need a vacant mind to prepare. I need not to think about Mia... Ok, maybe a little. I will allow myself thirty minutes to think about her, and then I'll focus.

Thirty minutes turns to the next day, as I wear my disguise and call the agent for some reassurance.

Time is my driver. It drops me off at Mr. Cavill's abode just as a Pomeranian skedaddle away from its owner's grip. Huffing, Mrs. Cavill looks up.

"Ur, gentleman? How can I help you?"

"You called my boss for a housekeeper? I'm Christian."

"I did." Relief washes over her. Letting me into her compound, she points to the dog. "New."

"Pretty." I smile. "What is her name?"

"Coco. Like its predecessor."

"Aw, Coco?"

The dog turns as if it hears me and barks.

"She'll get accustomed to you soon," I assure Mrs. Cavill.

*

If only I could also assure her that her husband won't get arrested for assisting his boss in child trafficking schemes. I cleaned the house for her, pretending not to notice the inconspicuous blood splatters in the living area.

After subtly collecting evidence and positioning cameras, I played with Coco until Mrs. Cavill sent me off.

Today is the same routine. I'm already getting the hang of this identity as there seems to be no danger yet.

When the afternoon sun burns, I hear guests arriving, to be frozen by the sight of Mr. Reindorf MacMillan.

And Mia.

The Cavills welcomes Reindorf to their porch. Mia trails behind them. She is so stunning. It's like the sun is begging to kiss her skin, which she's been showing more of these days.

Focus. What are they doing here, anyway?

I hide in the guest room, itching to get home to play their conversation.

"Oh, sorry!" Mia appears.

Surprised she's in the room, I let my actual voice slip. "What are you doing?"

"I just need to use the wash -" Mia halts, her eyes dilating.

Then she clasps my hand over my mouth. Guiding us to the washroom at neck breaking speed, she locks the door and pins me to the wall, her hands still on me. She waits for whatever sound there is to stop, whereas I keep my eyes on the ground.

She's gotten fast, and I have gotten red. Am I blushing? Oh Lord, I hope not. It must just be a reaction to her scent or something. She smells spring.

"We're inviting them to our wedding," is her answer as she releases me.

"Wedding?" My heart stops.

"Ya. Sunday." Mia looks away. "You'll come, right?"

"Of course ... not."

"Huh?"

"Mia?!" Reindorf's beckon is simultaneous to her response. We huff and share a look before she leaves, muttering, "Can't keep up with your shenanigans, can I?"

My shenanigans? I can't keep up with you?!

If my world is running, her world is on a sprint.

And I don't like that.

*

When I get to bed, I can't sleep. Thoughts of Mia walking down the aisle prove too stubborn to avoid. Restless, I do some work, call my sister, inquire about her acting gig; call Leo, receive his rants of concern; call Harry, and make it a group Facetime so I inform them of Mia's marriage.

"No!" Harry exclaims.

"It's unlikely she'll see him as anything other than a father figure," Leo says like its nothing to worry about.

"Ya sure? Age didn't stop you and Brenda."

"She's not that old. And it was just sex, Harry."

"Yet she's pregos. Mia might get knocked up too, and get stuck with him -"

"That will depend on her. What's his name?"

"Mr. Reindorf MacMillan."

"He'll control her. Mia doesn't know this guy well enough." Harry glares at me. "Does she?"

I shrug, concern warming up to my convulsion-prone chest.

"My goodness - " Harry slaps his desk. "Stop the wedding!"

*

*

I won't, but Im counting. My brain tracks the seconds so fast that it causes a headache. Popping in paracetamol to alleviate it, I call Mia.

She doesn't pick.

By Saturday, on my sixty-eighth try, the line is intercepted by Harry's number. I tell him my address since he's in Russia.

No, I didn't ask him to come. No, I don't ascribe to his pressure.

On his arrival, I deflect any talk of the wedding, distracting with the twelve cars Mr. Palviokinsky passed on to me. My exhilarated mate takes all for test rides, much to my headache's revival. I withstand it, faking thrill until I am thrilled. His love for cars infects me.

By night, exhaustion takes Harry to bed. He has made a gym of one the guestroom so I exercise a bit, after which the urge to call Mia overpowers me.

On the second ring, she answers, "Sup, dude?"

"I'm ok."

"You sound tired."

I chuckle, lowering a dumbbell. "So do you."

A pause.

"You're right not to come for the wedding. Gonna be a bore anyway."

I don't know how to reply. Biting my nail, I think of any other topic, but she beats me to it.

"Urgh, Charlie?"

"Yes, weirdo?"

"Takes one to know one. Anyway... When I said I love you, I meant, like, if the world was ending and I was asked who I wanted to live, that would be you. Something like that... dunno."

"That's nice." I sigh.

"That's not all," she says with a shaky tone, "I think you have a beautiful soul, and urm -"

"I can say the same for you, Mia."

"Ya, but -"

"No buts." I state matter-of-factly. "You are breathtaking too. I don't know... how to explain the soul part, but what's clear is that you take my breath away whenever you're around me, but I can't let that overwhelm me so I have made myself used to it."

"How so?" She asks.

"Urm, like when we first met in high school, I recalibrated my mind to focus on tutoring you, and urm, urm-"

"Oh!" she gasps. "I remember!"

"Mhm."

Another pause.

"Charlie?"

"Yes?"

"Are you still dating -"

"No."

"Ok. Good." She clears her throat. "I was feeling a little guilty about being happy."

"You shouldn't feel guilty about being happy."

"No, I should... Don't you?"

I don't understand her question. I don't understand what we are talking about now; however, I feel that my answer may ruin our friendship.

"I am sorry about a lot of things. But I don't feel guilty... I don't regret anything I've said tonight. If anything, I wish I could hold you and whisper it into your ears and - urm... Goodnight and goodwill, Mia. Hope your wedding goes well."

*