At first, I can’t figure out what the hell it is he wants me to see. I’m focused on Mia—on finding her and making hertalk.
Then I see it.
“This can’t be.” I snatch the phone from his hand, narrow my eyes. But the image doesn’t change. “It’s impossible.”
“It’s real.” Maks leans against the wall, panting hard. “It’s him, Yulian. He’s back. And he’s here.”
The blood drains from my face. “Find Mia,” I bark. “Now.”
“Yul—”
“I saidnow!”
I don’t turn to hear Maksim’s excuses. I don’t stay to see Nikita’s face turn gray as the ashes of the dead.
I just run like hell and hope to God it’s going to be enough.
Because, if that picture’s real?—
Mia is going to die.
4
MIA
After the argument with Yulian, I’m too frazzled to go back to the party. I need somewhere to gather myself—somewhere with fresh air and open skies, where I won’t feel the walls pressing in on me from every side.
So, when I see Brad tapping his foot impatiently near the west entrance, I make an instant U-turn and head for the upper floors.
They’re cordoned off, of course. No one’s allowed there yet, not the guests, not the staff.
Perfect.
As soon as I slip out into the east terrace, cold wind grazes my cheeks, bringing me back to life.
Yulian.It was the last thing I needed—seeing him today, being reminded of his betrayal. For months, I refused to believe Brad’s words. I told myself he was just manipulating me again, that there was no way Yulian could ever have struck a deal with him behind my back.
But he did. The way Brad called him “partner” can only mean one thing: they’re in business together. And the Yulian I know—the Yulian IthoughtI knew—would never do business with a monster like that.
So I guess I didn’t know him after all.
Turns out, he was just more of the same.
I still can’t wrap my head around it, though. It doesn’t matter how many times I replay their conversation in my head. Deep down, I just don’t want to believe it.
“I came for you, that night. To get you back.”
“Then why did you leave?” I whisper out loud to nobody.
Slowly, I walk up to the railing. I take a deep breath, then another. The balustrade feels shaky under my arms—no doubt Brad’s been skimping on quality materials again; par for the course, really—but I still rest on it, too exhausted to give it a second thought.
“Fuck,” I curse softly. Then, louder: “Fuck!”
“That bad, huh?”
I whip around. There’s a man next to the patio door, one who wasn’t there five seconds earlier.
He’s tall, late thirties-looking, a shaggy head of dirty brown hair falling in unruly waves around his face. His eyes are the same color—or, rather,eye.
