Chapter 37
Aurora
The entire wedding party piles into the limo after us.
Valeria, Sasha, Vitaly, Roman, Mikhail, Irina, and a few more men whose names I should know.
“Champagne!” Sasha fishes bottles from a hidden compartment. “Let’s drink to the happy couple!”
Flutes appear from nowhere, brimming with golden liquid that sloshes over the rims as the limo pulls into the street. My dress will probably stain, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“To Alexei and Aurora.” Roman hoists his flute, dipping his chin at Alexei and me. “May your union bring strength to our family.”
Mikhail shares a toast that I don’t hear.
He drinks.
I drink.
Everyone drinks.
The crisp, expensive liquid bubbles down my throat and settles in my empty stomach like fire. When did I last eat? Yesterday?
The limo winds through rain-slicked streets, leading us deeper into the city, then out again to where massive houses tower behind wrought-iron gates. Through the downpour,Roman’s compound materializes like a fortress. Stone walls, security cameras, vigilant guards. The driveway itself seems a mile long and leads us to an enormous stone mansion.
As we file out, Roman leans toward Alexei and whispers about the reception needing to be inside the grand ballroom for security concerns.
Grand.
Ballroom.
Whose house has a freaking ballroom in the twenty-first century?
The doors at the top of the steps glide open, and we cruise inside as more cars pull in behind us. Heels clack on marble floors. With his hand on my elbow, Alexei steers me down chandelier-lit halls with cherry wood wainscotting to a set of double doors flanked by staff.
Inside the grand ballroom, a whirlwind of crystal and gold and scented white flowers greets me. Tables topped with white linen and silver cutlery ring the dance floor. There’s a dais to one side where musicians are setting up.
An orchestra?
More chandeliers dangle from the thirty-foot ceiling.
This place seems closer to an old noble’s castle or an ultra-luxury hotel than someone’s home.
People crowd around us, kissing my cheeks and shaking Alexei’s hand. They speak to me in English and Russian, and I nod and smile at both with equal incomprehension. Someone keeps handing me plates of food to sample, but all of it tastes like ash.
A tumbler of vodka appears in my hand, replacing the drink I didn’t realize I’d emptied. When I down the ice-cold alcohol, a server immediately shows up with a fresh one. The room begins to glaze at the edges, the noise shifting from an assault on my nerves to a pleasant buzz.
“Time for the first dance,” someone announces, and Alexei shows up, arm extended.
I accept his hand because what else can I do?
His palm is warm against mine as he leads me to the center of the dance floor. A spotlight tracks us, and I squint against the brightness.
Slow, sweet music commences. Alexei’s palm settles around my waist, and he maintains a careful distance between our bodies as we move. He leads with confidence and control, just like he does in all other aspects of his life.
I follow, thankful that my body remembers steps my mind has forgotten.
When the song ends, other couples join us on the floor.
