We pull up to a towering glass building, its windows aglow. The doorman bows, murmurs Miron’s name, and ushers us inside.
My heels click on polished marble, the air scented with money and power.
The reception hall is vast, filled with low music and the murmur of voices. Chandeliers drip gold over a sea of perfect smiles and tailored suits.
The instant we enter, eyes swing toward us. My pulse skitters, heat rising up my neck. I feel the weight of their stares: the appraising, the curious, the jealous.
I realize, in a sick flash, that most of these people know exactly who Miron Sharov is. They know what kind of world this is, what it means for a woman to walk at his side. I have to play the part. My life could depend on it.
I school my features into a pleasant mask, letting Miron guide me with a possessive hand at my back. He stops to greet associates—introducing me as “Seraphina,” letting his hand rest on my waist as if to ward off questions.
I shake hands, smile, murmur polite nonsense. The guests glance between us, and their eyes linger on the marks just visible at my throat. I wonder what they imagine. If they know, if they care.
We move through the room as a unit, Miron in control, me struggling to match the rhythm. He leans in every so often, lips grazing my hair, offering whispered instructions.
Smile.
Don’t speak to that one.
I think she liked you.
His commands are so soft that anyone watching would think he’s saying something sweet.
There’s a chill beneath the surface here: rivalries simmering behind the laughter, alliances shifting with every glass of wine. I realize I’m not just Miron’s companion. I’m a message. His trophy.
I play the part well, returning greetings, pretending not to see the way the women look at me with envy or pity, the way the men study me like a piece of art Miron’s acquired for his collection.
We pause near a set of glass doors, and a man approaches—tall, dark-haired, with Miron’s eyes and an easy, predatory smile.
“You must be the famous Sera,” he says, shaking my hand with practiced charm. “Emil Sharov. Miron’s cousin.”
His grip is too firm, his gaze too keen. I feel Miron stiffen beside me.
“I see my cousin’s taste has improved,” Emil says, his words edged with humor and something sharper. “It’s rare he brings anyone to these things. Rarer still for him to pick someone so… interesting.”
Miron’s hand at my waist tightens. “Careful, Emil.”
Emil laughs, the sound smooth, unconcerned. “Relax, Miron. She’s not the first beautiful woman you’ve stolen from the world. She just might be the one you keep.” He turns to me, eyes narrowing. “You know what kind of man my cousin is, don’t you?”
My throat closes. I want to lie, but the words fail me.
Emil’s smile turns gentle, almost kind. “If you’re smart, you’ll learn fast. The Sharov Corporation isn’t just steel andshipping. It’s blood and loyalty. Miron protects what’s his, and he never, ever lets go.”
The words coil in my chest, cold and heavy. I nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I understand.”
Emil claps Miron on the back, offers me a last, knowing look, and slips away into the crowd. Miron’s arm is still around me, but I feel suddenly alone.
We mingle for what feels like hours. My smile never slips, but inside, I’m hollowing out. Every conversation, every glance, every touch is a reminder that this isn’t just about Miron and me. It’s about an empire built on crime and secrets, on the kind of loyalty that can kill as easily as it protects. I am a piece in a game so much bigger than I ever imagined.
At one point, Miron leans in, his lips just above my ear. “You’re doing well. Stay close.”
I nod, but inside, I feel my freedom slipping further away with every step. Each laugh I fake, each polite word, is a thread tying me tighter to his world. The dress, the diamonds at my ears, the gentle touch at my back—none of it is mine. It’s all borrowed, all part of the illusion he’s wrapped around me.
When the crowd finally thins, Miron takes my arm and leads me toward a balcony. The air outside is sharp, night wind tugging at the hair I spent an hour pinning up. I look out over the city lights, heart aching.
Once, I might have dreamed of a night like this—a gown, a powerful man, a city at my feet. Now it’s a cage.
For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe. When I look back at my reflection in the glass, I see a stranger, a woman who belongs nowhere, caught in a world that will never let her go.
