Alex POV
Zetrov Airfields, 38km from Moscow
The sun is shining brightly, brilliantly even, almost excessively. It seems like it is beaming upon me as if to mock me and the steaming pile of dog mess I am getting myself into. Laughing with glee, as I leave my childhood home to face who knows what.
As the porter takes my last trolley of suitcases and loads them up into my father's private jet at Zetrov's very own airfields, I bade my parents' a final farewell.
'Safe journey, Alexandra darling,' says my mother Katya, a tear escaping her eyes. ' hope that you enjoy your internship on Wall Street.'
See, here's the thing: if my mother found out that my father is essentially pimping me out to a complete stranger for the sake of a business deal, she would freak out. And I don't mean a 'what the hell are you thinking' freak out, I mean an 'ALEXANDRA NATASHA UDINOV! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, YOU BLOODY SILLY FOOL!' freak out. Yeah. She'd yell that, and curse in Russian.
So... my father basically told her that I'm interning at a major multinational corporation based in New York. You know, playing the 'it's time she actually put that enormously overpriced education and business degree to use' -card.
Meanwhile, my first stop after I land in JFK will be to City Hall. Probably not the most romantic setting for a wedding, but hey - at least we're not getting shitfaced and married by a stoned Elvis impersonator in Vegas. (Oh the small mercies.)
Then, I'm moving into the lovely Ms. Pierce's house with her son, who may or may not be as much of an ass - sorry, demanding - as she is.
If it wasn't blatantly obvious, I'm not much of an optimist.
And when madre mía finds out that I got hitched instead of securing business deals, I'll spin a yarn about a 'whirlwind romance' and being 'swept off my feet' – because apparently nobody does passionate and romantic better than Seal Team 6 (hot-pink bulletproof vests that say "I heart Jacob" and bullets engraved with your initials are the best Valentines-day gifts ever). Then when, six months later, I will be a twenty-six year-old divorcée, I'll have to chalk it up to 'not knowing each other well enough' and all - the closest thing in this tale as tall as the Empire State to the truth.
Great. So not only will I be serving as a high-end prostitute (but not being sold for sex, just sold), I am also lying to my mother. Because healthy parent-child relationships just thrive when you throw fake marriages and lying about them into the mix and -
'Alexandra!' My father calls, pulling me out of my inner monologue. 'It's time for your plane to leave now.'
I take a sharp intake of breath as I stand up straight and brush a nonexistent piece of dirt from my jacket. 'I'm ready,' I reply, if just to convince myself. Of course I'm not, though - if anyone knows how to prepare for fake nuptials to a stranger, you know who to call (wink, wink).
The private jet's ladder-staircase has been rolled out, and I am only a few feet from the vessel that will take me to another continent, and I have never felt more like cargo ever in my life - an item shipped from one person to another. I am, essentially, just a means to an end. Glancing at my father, I see a shadow of doubt, a fear that I am going to screw up this plan. In all honesty, it's not like I haven't considered backing out of this plan a million and one times in all of the eighteen hours that I've known about it. Talk about a last-minute notification.
Knowing that the plane is ready for me, I walk to my father and embrace him one last time. Whatever reservations I have about his clinically insane plan, he still is my dad. And on paper that doesn't have much of a meaning, but sadly, I had no say in whose sperm contributed to my existence ('tis true, 'tis a pity). That, and after everything he's done for me (drilled into the ocean for oil and massively contributed to the depletion of our natural resources - now that is love), I kind of owe him.
'Thank you, Alexandra,' he says quietly to me, whilst squashing my airways by hugging me so tightly. 'Remember what I taught you and always know that I love you. You are a smart, beautiful and strong young woman.'
'Papa, you're crushing my ribcage.'
He releases me tightly, and I resume normal oxygen intake. 'For what it's worth, I appreciate the sentiment. I love you too, Papa.'
He gives me a proud smile. 'And don't forget that this will all be over in six months,' he adds.
'Oh, believe me, I won't,' I say, half-jokingly, half-dead-serious. Then, 'don't worry, Papa. I won't let you down.'
And so I pull down my sunglasses over my eyes, so as to not expose the oncoming wetness in my eyes to the world (ok, my parents, a porter, a pilot and a flight attendant, but you get the point). I don't even know why I'm shedding tears over this - maybe I'm just scared shitless. Maybe I have no idea about what I'm about to get myself into. Either way, my tear duct is translating that emotion into, well, tears.
I board the plane and sit down in a window seat at the front. As I glance out of the window to see my parents waving, I can't help but feel like the Alexandra they raised, know and love might just be making her exit on this journey. The daughter who returns to them may well be a completely different person.
All I know right now is that I am in for a long journey. And I'm not just speaking literally. Seriously, the Moscow-New York flight is a trek.
I call the flight attendant, and hope that for now, the complimentary champagne sea-salted peanuts will help.
A/N: Love? Hate? Drop a review. All ideas, comments and suggestions are welcome. (Sheesh, does that sound like a Terms and Conditions or what?)
Also, everyone who is in Hurricane Isaac's path, I hope you all stay safe!
Until next time, my Nikita-addicted-withdrawal-symptoms-suffering-Salex-shippers.
