Chapter 145: Chapter 145: Hypocrites All

ZOYA

Nauseous. That's how I feel as I watch Kirill Kolochev walk toward me in baggage claim at the airport. I figured it was best to face my executioner and meet him straight away.

My father is a handsome man, his dark, curly hair clipped short, graying at the temples. He's tall and broad-shouldered, sharply dressed in a white button-down shirt, gray slacks, and a blue suit jacket.

As handsome as he is, nothing can cover the downturn of his mouth, deepening with each step he takes toward me. My stomach is a pit of acid.

He steps toward me, pulling me into a fierce hug that belies how livid I know he must be. He pulls away, scanning my face. "Ty khorosho vyglyadush', doch'." You look well, daughter.

"English, Papa," I remind him.