I shoot him a look, but say nothing. Lukyan’s still watching her, half amused, half calculating. “She’s got bite,” he says, tone approving. “You going to do something about it, or let her walk out of here alone?”
She pulls her jacket from the back of a chair, sliding her arms into the sleeves in one smooth motion. The friend hugs her, and Isabella smiles, small and private. She tugs her hair forward, zips her coat, and for the first time all night, looks around like she’s searching for something… someone.
For a split second, our eyes almost meet. She hesitates at the edge of the crowd, uncertainty passing across her face, and my chest tightens. I wonder if she recognizes me in this light, in this world.
She heads for the exit, weaving between bodies with that same contained grace. Each step feels drawn out, deliberate, as if she’s counting the seconds until she’s free. I find myself wanting to follow her. To know where she goes when the mask of the gallery curator, the daughter, the perfect liar, slips away. I want to know what keeps her up at night. What she dreams about. What she’s running from, or toward.
Dimitri elbows me, pulling me back to the present. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Boss.”
Maybe I have. Or maybe I’m just seeing something I want for the first time in years, and the wanting alone feels like a threat.
I don’t chase her. I stay in the booth, hands steady, face calm, even as the feeling inside me twists tighter. I watch her disappear through the glowing doors, out into the cold and the dark. I wonder if she’ll look back. Wonder if she expects to see me standing there, waiting for her in the shadows.
She doesn’t look back. Not tonight.
Still, I find myself thinking:she doesn’t belong here, but maybe that’s exactly why I can’t stop watching her.
Dimitri tips his glass toward me, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re going to let her walk out like that? Since when did Emil Sharov watch from the sidelines?”
I roll the whiskey between my palms, eyes still fixed on the empty spot where Isabella had vanished. “It’s not my business,” I say, but the words taste wrong. Even to me.
He leans back, stretching an arm over the velvet booth. “That’s not how you look at her. You looked like you wanted to break the guy’s jaw when he tried to put his hands on her.”
I glance at him, jaw tightening. “He doesn’t know who she is. He’s lucky she let him off easy.”
Dimitri laughs. It’s a short, rough sound, more observation than humor. “She’s got more spine than half the men in this place.” He lowers his voice. “What’s her story? You know her?”
“Not really.” I set the glass down, stare at the cut glass, the amber glow. “We met at the gallery event. She’s not like the others.”
Dimitri raises an eyebrow. “You want me to find out more?”
For a moment, I almost say yes, but I shake my head. “No. I’ll handle it.” There’s a line I don’t want crossed—not with her. Not yet.
He considers me, gaze steady. “You sure? Usually by now you’d have the name, the address, her mother’s maiden name.”
“Drop it, Dimka,” I say, quieter. “If I want to know, I’ll ask her myself.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then shrugs, tossing back the rest of his drink. “Suit yourself. You know how this cityworks, Emil—if you wait too long, someone else will make the first move.”
I lean back, watching the swirl of people on the floor, my mind drifting to Isabella’s laugh, the flash of her eyes. “Let them try,” I mutter. “She’s not theirs to touch.”
Dimitri grins, satisfied. “Didn’t think so.”
Chapter Seven - Isabella
The air in the club shivers with light and sound. Bass thumps through the soles of my shoes, working up through my bones until I can almost believe I’m part of the rhythm. Strobes slice the darkness, catching on the sequins of my dress and setting the fabric on fire.
Every shift, every spin, flashes silver and pale blue across my thighs. For once, I let my hair tumble loose down my back. If anyone’s looking for Isabella Bruno tonight, they won’t find her.
Clara dances beside me, eyes bright, hair flying. She leans in, laughter tumbling out over the music. “You never go out,” she shouts. “What’s gotten into you, Izzy? Some mystery man?”
I laugh, shaking my head, careful not to let the real answer slip. “Just felt like living a little. That’s allowed, right?”
She arches a brow, playful and suspicious. “This better not be about work. You promised you’d have fun.”
I take her hand, twirling her once beneath the flashing lights. “I am having fun,” I lie, and it sounds almost true in the noise.
Truth is, I’m here for a reason. My whole body’s on high alert, skin prickling whenever I pass through the golden halo of the VIP section where I know he’s sitting. Emil Sharov, watching from his high-backed booth with that unreadable expression.
