For a moment, the ballroom is just a blur of light and silk and perfume, everything unreal. His scent clings.
Izzy catches up to me in the corridor, cheeks flushed, still tipsy and glowing. “You disappeared,” she says, words tumbling, “Did you see that guy? The one in black? I swear he was staring at you all night—”
I wave her off, mumbling something about fresh air, not trusting myself to say more. My pulse hasn’t settled. Even as I push open the heavy glass door and let the cold night bite into my skin, I know it’s not enough. I’m still carrying him, his voice, the pressure of his hand at my waist, the strange promise in his eyes.
I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself it’s nerves, champagne, the mask of a room full of strangers.
Izzy is still chattering, her laughter chasing me down the steps, but my mind is caught somewhere else. I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see that black mask in the shadows, watching. The marble foyer is empty.
I press the velvet mask to my chest, pulse flickering. I haven’t escaped, not really. The night feels changed, somehow. I try to leave him behind, but it’s pointless. He’s already under my skin.
Chapter Two - Miron
These gatherings are always the same. Smiles with too many teeth, laughter that means nothing, old power dressed up as something new. The ceilings glitter, the walls sweat money. I drift between clusters of men and women who know my face but never my intent. That’s by design.
Tonight, the mask fits easily. I move from group to group, listening more than I speak. Every word offered is weighed, stored, cataloged, and sorted for use later. No one here is worth trusting. The ones who try hardest to impress me are the quickest to fold when things turn. The ones who avoid my gaze, I keep a closer watch on.
A waiter offers me champagne. I refuse, nodding once, cold and final. I want clarity. The last thing I need is dullness. Besides, I prefer to see who loses control first. The American elite always do, eventually.
A familiar face leans in. Andrei, one of my oldest associates. He murmurs a reminder about the De Luca shipment, code in every word. I answer in kind, nothing more than a flicker of eye contact and a slight nod. He melts away, replaced by someone else, everyone always performing.
The performance tonight bores me. None of these people matter. Their fortunes, their secrets, their wives and enemies, all interchangeable. I’m already thinking about my next move, something cleaner than this circus, when a shift in the crowd catches my attention.
She’s hard to miss once you know to look. Black mask, hair pinned up in a rush, body language all wrong for this world. She holds herself like someone ready to run not just from the party, but from everything. There’s a nervous edge in the way she fingers the stem of her glass, the tension in her shoulders.
She isn’t speaking much. Her companion—Izzy, I remember, the gallery assistant—flits from group to group, always laughing, always leaning in. The woman in black hangs back. She surveys the room with a kind of wariness I recognize. Not fear, exactly. More like calculation. She’s taking everything in, searching for exits.
No one else seems to notice her discomfort. That makes me curious. She doesn’t belong, and she knows it. Most people pretend, try to fake their way through, but she doesn’t bother. She endures. Endurance is interesting.
I let myself watch her, blending in with the shadows at the edge of the dance floor. She’s not conventionally beautiful by the standards of this crowd; too pale, too guarded, eyes that miss nothing. That’s exactly what draws me in. I wonder if she’ll sense me. Some people do.
For a moment, our eyes meet across the space, just a flicker. I hold her gaze, steady, waiting to see what she does. She looks away. I smile behind my mask, slow and private. The party fades. She’s the only thing I see.
I make a note to learn her name. Tonight, at least, I’m not bored.
I linger at the edge, pretending to listen as a city councilman drones about “urban revitalization.” My eyes keep straying. She stands with her friend—Izzy, all teeth and charm—letting herself be tugged toward another circle of guests.
Even in motion, there’s a tension in her shoulders, the way her hand twists the stem of her glass. Not boredom. Not quite anxiety. More like vigilance, the urge to vanish if she could.
Beside me, Pavel slides into view, hands in his pockets, mouth quirking. “See something interesting, Boss?” he murmurs in Russian, quiet enough that no one else would catch it.
I don’t look at him. “Watch your tone, Pavel.”
He grins wider, leaning in as if to discuss business. “You’ve been staring at the girl in black for ten minutes. The one with the mouth like a razor.”
I ignore the jibe, scanning the crowd as if searching for a target. “She doesn’t fit,” I say, letting the words hang. “Not with this lot.”
Pavel’s eyes follow my line of sight. “Maybe she’s looking for trouble. Or maybe she’s lost.” He sips his drink, watching me over the rim. “You do like strays.”
I almost smile. “She’s not a stray.”
He snorts. “You want me to introduce you? Or do you plan to haunt her from a distance all night?”
“She’ll come closer,” I say. “She’s already looking for exits. Eventually, she’ll find me in the way.”
Pavel laughs, low and knowing. “You never change, Miron.”
Across the room, she’s arguing with Izzy in a clipped whisper. Izzy tries to nudge her toward another knot of guests; the girl shakes her head, lips pressed in a line. She glances around, every line of her body says get me out, but she refuses to run. Not yet.
