The guest materials arrived promptly. Staring at the thick portfolio, my head began to throb. Though I'd navigated similar events before, the Bellucci family's network paled in comparison to the Morozovs' labyrinthine complexity.
I had Darya move everything to the conservatory—this kind of work required a pleasant environment.
Settling into my chair, I forced myself to memorize those unfamiliar faces and backgrounds. It felt like those nights cramming financial terminology for my CFA exam.
I was untangling the relationships between several Morozov branch family wives when the sharp click of heels approached rapidly.
Anya appeared in the doorway. She wore a crisp black pantsuit with a long coat that accentuated her already imposing height. She took the chair across from me with little ceremony.
"Mother sent me to highlight the key figures you need to focus on, so you don't stand there like a wooden post, unable to distinguish anyone, and disgrace the Morozov name."
I was accustomed to her blunt arrogance. This directness was actually easier to navigate.
"Thank you for coming," I said with a smile and nod.
Anya seemed pleased with my compliance. She extracted a page from my files. The photograph showed a middle-aged man with a genial smile and immaculately styled hair.
"Richard Joels, city planning committee," she said, tapping the photo with her fingertip. "He adores discussing family and charity in public, cultivating his devoted family man image. But never mention his 'private art collection apartment' in the university district—especially don't inquire about that apartment manager who's the same age as his daughter. With hypocrites like this, simply smile and praise his sense of social responsibility."
I committed this to memory, impressed by her surgical insight. This wasn't mere gossip—it was precise character assessment.
She flipped several pages, indicating a heavily bejeweled woman with an exaggerated smile. "Victoria Harrington. Her husband's shipping company is angling for a piece of our business." Anya's red lips curved slightly. "She's currently obsessed with collecting nineteenth-century French fans, particularly those with scandalous histories. You don't need expertise—just comment 'there must be a fascinating story behind such exquisite craftsmanship' when she shows off, then listen. She'll consider you a kindred spirit, even if you find those tales utterly vulgar."
"And this one..." Anya's pace quickened, but I kept up effortlessly. Seeing that I not only retained the essential points but could extrapolate with pertinent questions, approval flickered in her eyes.
Perhaps weary from her explanations, she leaned back and studiedme while sipping her tea. "That's sufficient for today. You're better than I anticipated."
"I appreciate the compliment."
She looked mildly surprised, then lapsed into brief silence. As I continued organizing my files, she spoke abruptly. "Isabella's gone—finally some peace. Kholod, he..." She hesitated, then concluded tersely, "Just keep your head down, avoid trouble, and you'll manage."
I glanced up in surprise. I hadn't expected such words from her. Her expression was uncomfortable, a flicker of pity crossing her eyes as she regarded me.
She pitied me.
"I will," I answered calmly.
"See that you do." She rose and departed hastily.
I watched her retreat, the oppression in my chest intensifying until I could barely breathe. I quickly reached for my inhaler but still felt something constricting my throat. Pity... How pathetic had I become in their eyes? I couldn't suppress a bitter laugh. That was precisely what I needed least.
On the afternoon of the gala, the entire master bedroom was commandeered by the styling team.
I sat at the vanity, surrendering to their ministrations. The woman in the mirror gradually transformed into a stranger—flawless makeup, an elegant chignon, every detail perfect yet utterly artificial.
"Ma'am, the gown has arrived."
Darya and the maids carefully presented an enormous gift box.
When the dress was revealed, the entire room seemed to illuminate.
Ice-blue satin shimmered under the lights, the hem scattered with delicate crystals. The strapless design sculpted the shoulders and décolletage, the fitted bodice hugged every curve, while the skirt cascaded into an elegant mermaid silhouette.
"This is Valentino haute couture from this season—only three exist worldwide," a stylist murmured reverently.
I stared at the dress, my emotions in turmoil. Kholod neverappeared in person, yet he wielded this method to craft me into an exhibition piece.
After donning the gown, I stood transfixed before the mirror. The woman reflected back was breathtakingly beautiful. The ice-blue fabric rendered my skin luminously pale, while the sapphire necklace at my throat blazed with brilliance—far surpassing the one he'd given Isabella in both size and clarity.
