Pretty Little Toy

From the moment he saw me, Ilya Popov wanted me. And now? I’m going to be his.

I’ve only ever had two dreams for my life–escape the small town I was raised in, and become a ballerina. I accomplished one and I’m well on my way to the other–or so I thought.

Until there’s no more money for Rosehill, and I’m in danger of losing everything. All my dreams are about to be shattered–until he sees me again. A man I never even knew wanted me.

He offers me everything. My dreams, comfort, a future–for as long as we’re both happy with the arrangement. His desires fulfilled, in exchange for my dreams coming true. It’s an easy thing to agree to. After all, love was never part of my plan.

But Ilya’s world is darker than I know, and it’s impossible not to be drawn into it–or to him. Forever was never part of our arrangement, but now?

He made me his pretty little toy. And I want to play for keeps.

Pretty Little Toy is a steamy, dark mafia, age gap, STANDALONE romance ready to be consumed.

Book 1: Pretty Little Lies (Nicolo and Anya)
Book 2: Pretty Little Toy (Ilya and Whitney)
Book 3: Pretty Little Game (Cassio and Bianka)

Whitney

Eighteen Months Later

Despite having worked full-time at both my jobs for the past three weeks straight without a day off, I couldn’t sleep a wink last night knowing what today brings. Registration day, when my tuition is due for the impending semester at Rosehill College, and I don’t have enough. I didn’t manage to get the scholarship I had been banking on so hard this past year because sustaining a job and following Rosehill’s dance program has proved more challenging than I could ever have imagined. Therefore, I couldn’t practice dance as often as I needed to earn the scholarship, and I couldn’t give up my job if I had a hope of affording one more semester. 

I’m only about five thousand short for this semester, but that won’t help me now. And as I’m stretched this thin for the first semester, I know without a doubt that I won’t be able to pay for next semester. But facing the fact that my dream is crumbling around me is more than I can bear. I dress with heavy limbs, pulling on my ragged, threadbare jean short-shorts and black crop-top shirt with a sense of doom. 

I can see the pallor in my cheeks as I work product into my short hair, accentuating its wispy pixie look. I’m determined to carry on, to at least attempt to mask the devastation threatening to consume me when I sit down with Mom this morning to discuss my plan. Finishing my rebellious look with a thick ring of eyeliner that ends in a cat’s-eye point, I then coat my lashes with mascara to darken their already thick black color. It’s the same look I’ve had since high school, since my dad left us. Now, I can’t even remember myself with long hair and light eye makeup, pink shirts or delicate shoes. I leave that for occasional ballet costumes. This is who I am. It’s my defense, my armor, and I want people to know that I’m no one to mess with. 

Tying my red-and-black flannel shirt around my waist, I head down the hall to face my mom. The smell of coffee greets me, and I breathe it in gratefully.

“Morning,” Mom says brightly from the kitchen as she leans into the fridge.

“Morning,” I say with less enthusiasm. I head to a cupboard to extract two coffee mugs, and before the pot’s done brewing, I pull it from its heat pad to pour us each a steaming mug. 

Mom joins me with the cream, and I find a spoon to scoop sugar into her mug as she pours us each a splash of creamer to color the brew. It’s a ritual we started together when we moved to Chicago. Seeing as mornings were the only time I would see my mother on weekdays, she made a practice of getting up in the middle of her sleeping hours to sit and have a cup of coffee with me. 

Neither of us bother with breakfast. I can’t eat this early, and Mom doesn’t like eating in the middle of her night. Instead, we slump into the kitchen chairs, cupping our mugs as we soak up their warmth. 

“Hard shift?” I ask. 

My poor mom looks exhausted, her prematurely graying blond hair tousled in its loose braid, puffy circles beneath her eyes. I get my dark hair from my dad–a reminder of him I’m often tempted to bleach just so I don’t have to think about him every day. I tried it once, but blonde does not look good on me. 

“Chuck fired Tina about an hour in, so I was working the front alone for most of the night,” she confesses and sips her coffee gratefully. 

“Yeesh.” I know how rough a serving shift can be when you’re short-handed. 

My mom shrugs. “But the good news is that means Chuck needs me to work more to cover her shifts, at least until he hires someone to replace Tina, so that will put us ahead a little bit.” 

I give my mom a sad smile. She’s been burning the candle at both ends just like me in the hopes that we can scrape together enough for this semester’s tuition, and a twinge of guilt tightens my stomach when I think about that. About how much of my mom’s hard-earned money is going toward my education rather than a savings for her retirement or, hell, even just a staycation. 

My eyes drop as I think about how I’m going to tell her that we’re still short and that the bill’s due. Finally, I commit to my usual tactic of blunt honesty. I don’t know how to do it any other way. “Mom, I’m still five thousand short on tuition, and today’s registration,” I say flatly, fidgeting with the handle of my coffee mug. 

My mom remains silent long enough that I look up to meet her sad, knowing eyes. Tears sting the back of mine in response, and I fight them furiously, determined not to cry over the crushing defeat of saying those words out loud. 

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” Mom reaches across the table, her work-roughened fingers gripping mine as if trying to force some comfort through our touch. “Maybe it’s for the best. I know you love to dance and that you’re a beautiful dancer, but perhaps you should focus on a more affordable college, like Wilbur Wright. Maybe you could think about teaching dance instead of performing it. They have a nice program that turns out wonderful ballet instructors.”

I pull my hand back, offended by the suggestion that I simply give up my dream to teach ballet instead. Not that I hold any contempt for teachers or their profession. I respect those who want to share their gifts and educate others on what they know. But that’s not me. I’m confident I would be a terrible teacher–solely because it would mean giving up my passion, if nothing else, and that would make me resentful of my students, not inspiring to them. 

“I am not going to Wilbur Wright College to become a teacher. If I’m giving up my dream, I might as well find a boring, dead-end desk job that will pay a little better. It might slowly suck my soul from my body day in and day out, but I would prefer that to teaching dance.” I rise from the kitchen table. 

My mother’s struck expression sends another wave of guilt through me, and I know she was only trying to help, but I hate the fact that she’s giving up on me. That feels like the story of my life. No one wants to stick it out, to believe that I’m worth it. That I can do this. 

“Baby, I know it’s hard to hear, but if we can’t afford Rosehill, you need to consider another option. You can’t keep chasing rainbows, and I don’t want you to end up like me, finding work with no degree at all, nothing to help you get a better, more stable job than working restaurants and registers your whole life.” Mom rises from her chair as well, following me toward our apartment door. 

I don’t respond, shoving my feet into my well-worn combat boots as I prepare to depart.

“Where are you going?” she asks as I grip our apartment door handle. 

“To find someone who will give me an extension. You might be ready to give up on my dream, but I’m not. I can get the money together if they’ll just give me a few more weeks.” I think I can, at least.

“And then what? You’ll be faced with this same decision next semester, Whitney,” my mom scolds, her voice turning more heated as I yank open the door. 

I turn to face her, trying to keep my emotions from overwhelming my face. “I’ll find a way, but I can’t stop now. Not without doing everything in my power.” 

My mom’s slender eyebrow raises, and I know what words are going to leave her mouth before she speaks them. “If you’re willing to go that far, you could try finding and asking your father.”

My mood darkens as she confirms my suspicion. “I don’t want anything from that man. Ever. He left us, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s as good as dead.” 

I see the familiar spark of pride in my mom’s eye that comes when I stand strong with her against my father. He hurt us both beyond healing the day he walked out the door, leaving us without a backward glance. And though I know my mom doesn’t want to let her pain and suffering impact me negatively, she’s never once tried to claim the child support she’s due. She’s made it perfectly clear that she wants nothing from the man who broke her heart so completely and left our family in ruins. And even as I’m faced with the prospect of giving up my dream to be a dancer, I agree. 

Giving my mom’s arm a squeeze, I soften my voice. “Get some sleep. I’ll go speak to the registrar’s office and see what kind of extension they might give me.”

She cups my cheek, giving me a sad smile. “I only want what’s best for you, Whitney. You know that right?”

“I know, Mom.” I give her a last squeeze before turning to head down the steps of our apartment building toward the street below. 

It’s a long hour-and-a-half bus ride to Rosehill’s campus from West Side to North Side Chicago, which gives me plenty of time to formulate a plan and what I’m going to say to get an extension. The bus is muggy, filled with the stench of body odor, and I’m grateful when the doors finally open onto the campus’s old-worldly, graystone buildings and beautiful tree-lined walkways. 

It’s busy today, with students milling about, parents accompanying freshmen as everyone familiarizes themselves with the small campus and stands in line for registration. Waiting my turn feels like torture when my future seems to hang in the balance. To bide my time, I chew on my nails, a bad habit my mom’s been trying to get me to break for years, but I can’t help myself. I’m used to wearing my nails short, seeing as it’s my only way of curbing the nervous tic, but today, there’s no stopping me. 

Finally, it’s my turn to speak with the bespectacled lady sitting behind the office counter, and I offer her a bright smile as I step forward. She doesn’t return it as she gets right down to business. 

“Name?” she asks, staring at her computer screen. 

“Whitney Carlson,” I respond, suppressing the anxiety that threatens to rise in me when I realize I’ll be speaking with a computer rather than a human being. 

“It looks like you’ve already enrolled in classes, seeing as it’s your sophomore year, but your payment is still due. Would you like to pay with a card, check…?” The woman glances at me, her steady gaze disinterested. 

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about the payment,” I say, and my voice comes out more shakily than I would like. “Do you offer any, um, payment plans or… extensions or anything?”

The woman’s gaze grows cold, her lips pressing together in a no-nonsense line. “If you were in need of assistance, that’s something you should have been discussing with the financial office months ago.”

“No, no. Not assistance. The last thing I need is to start accruing interest I won’t be able to pay off. I just need a bit more time. Can’t I pay part now and the rest next month or something?” I can hear the desperation in my voice, and it makes my stomach curdle. 

“We don’t normally offer extensions at Rosehill. Payments are due in full at registration.”

I bite my lip, sensing the impending rejection. “Please, just–just a few weeks. Isn’t there anyone I could speak to who might be willing to make an exception?” 

The woman studies me carefully for several minutes, her eyes roaming over my worn, faded wardrobe, and a hint of humanity trickles into her expression. “Give me a moment,” she says finally, picking up her desk phone and dialing a number. 

I wait with bated breath, glancing over my shoulder as I hear the beginnings of grumbled discontent as I’m holding up the line. I cast a glare at the man behind me who’s making the noise as he waits with his son, complaining about the gall some people have to waste everyone’s time begging for charity. Heat tinges my cheeks, and I turn back to face the woman behind the counter, forcing my eyes to remain locked on her hopefully as I attempt to drown out the man’s voice. 

A lighter female voice carries to me from the line next to me, and I glance in her direction instinctually. She’s a pretty girl, with impressive brunette ringlets that hold a beautiful natural red tinge. She speaks with the bright ease of a freshman without a care in the world, and from the quality of her clothes, I’m positive she’s not facing the same kind of financial struggle as I am.

But my gaze only lingers on her for a moment before I catch sight of the man beside her. He’s impressively tall, muscularly built, with well-trimmed black stubble gracing a strong jaw. He’s not old enough to be her father, but he holds the authority of a man who’s used to giving orders. And there’s something intensely familiar about him. I feel as though I know him from somewhere, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe I’ve served him at my restaurant before? But that doesn’t seem right.

“Alright, I’ve spoken with the dean, and I can give you a week’s extension for your payment,” my helper says, drawing my attention back to her.

“A week?” I say as a rock settles in my stomach. 

The woman’s hard face seems to soften at my tone. “That’s all I can give you. I hope it helps.”

Tears sting my eyes as I realize just how close this might come. I don’t know if I can pull together the necessary amount in a week’s time. Two yes. But one week? “Thank you so much,” I say, forcing a smile to mask my anxiety. 

“Good luck,” she says, dismissing me.

Dejected, I turn to step out of line, and my eyes meet a set of dark, intense ones watching me. The handsome, strong-jawed man in the line next to mine is watching me, and my heart flutters as I get that same sense that I know him from somewhere. 

He murmurs something to the girl beside him and steps out of line as he approaches me. The scent of pine and sandalwood tickle my nose as he stops before me, his eyes never leaving mine, and my feet feel frozen to the cement as I wait for him to speak.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing your situation, and I thought I might have a word with you.” 

The deep, musical sound of his Russian accent makes my stomach tremble, and suddenly, I remember why I know him. It’s been over a year since I saw him last, standing in front of his blue Lamborghini, looking for all the world like some Greek marble masterpiece. And now here he is again, turning my insides to mush in the middle of the admissions office as his penetrating eyes search my face. For what, I do not know.