The awkwardness lingers, thick as smoke. Matteo glances between us, his suspicion a living thing. He leans in, speaking softly in Isabella’s ear.
“Why don’t you grab us some drinks, hmm? Take your time.” He means it as a kindness, but his eyes never leave me as she slips away.
She moves quickly, almost stumbling over the hem of her dress, head down, every movement betraying her desperation to get away. I watch her go, memorizing the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shake as she clutches her purse.
For a second, I imagine dragging her out right here. Demanding the truth, pulling every secret out of her in front of the whole world.
That’s not how things are done, not in this world. Here, revenge and revelation are private acts. I let my expression settle into a mask of easy boredom, all anger hidden beneath the practiced, indifferent smile I’ve worn for years.
Matteo steps in close, lower than the party’s hum. “Stay away from her, Sharov,” he warns, voice sharp but quiet. “I see the way you look at her. My family doesn’t need any more Russian problems.”
I chuckle, the sound low and humorless. “Protective, aren’t you?” I let the implication hang. If Isabella was really his to protect, she wouldn’t have kept me secret. “She’s a grown woman. Maybe let her decide who she spends time with.”
His jaw clenches, but he won’t make a scene here, not tonight. “Just remember, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. Especially by your kind.”
I let my smile fade, meeting his stare head-on. “Then maybe you should keep a closer eye on her.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow, but he turns away with a muttered curse, disappearing into the knot of guests that surround his uncle.
I watch Isabella at the far end of the hall, lingering at the bar, her back turned, spine stiff as glass. The sight of her, so out of place among all this gold and poison, twists something sharp in my chest.
For the rest of the night, I keep to the fringes. Every time I glance her way, she’s already looking elsewhere, her attention scattered and anxious. Not once does she meet my gaze again, and the distance between us—filled with the weight of her lies—grows heavier with every passing minute.
I field meaningless conversations with politicians and old gangsters, Shawn Pedro crowing at my side, but my mind stays fixed on Isabella. I replay every word, every secret look, every memory of her laugh is now tainted by the knowledge of who she really is.
Later, as the crowd thins and Matteo leads her away, he throws one last warning look over his shoulder. “Remember what I said, Sharov.”
I just smile, sharp and slow. Little Isabella hasn’t told anyone the truth about us, it seems. The thought makes me almost laugh.
Inside, I’m boiling. She played me for a fool. She thinks she can dance between empires and walk away clean.
She has no idea what it means to be hunted by a Sharov.
The party’s heat only thickens as the night drags on; champagne flows, laughter edges toward a fever pitch, and the old families press in, circling each other with honeyed words and thinly veiled threats. I move through the rooms with a glass in my hand, my smile practiced, my attention elsewhere.
Isabella lingers near the edge of the crowd, always with someone at her elbow: Matteo, a watchful aunt, or some eager cousin angling for her favor. She laughs on cue, answers questions about family and travel, but her eyes dart to the exits, calculating. There’s a flicker of defiance beneath her surface, a tension that sets her apart from the other women in the room. She doesn’t want to be here. Not with me, not with them.
I keep to the sidelines, but she knows I’m watching. Our gazes collide in brief, electric flashes—hers bright with fear and something darker. Each time, she’s the first to look away.
Later, as the party lulls and the older guests settle into private corners, I see her slip free of Matteo and the Pedros. She moves along the wall, head down, careful as a thief. I follow with my eyes, making sure no one else notices the desperation in her stride.
She’s nearly at the back hallway, one hand on her purse, the other already reaching for the door, when I step into her path.
Chapter Thirteen - Isabella
The ballroom is a blur of gold and white, laughter and violin, but all I can hear is the rush of my own pulse.
Each step I take through the crowd feels like moving upstream, past pressed suits and sparkling jewels, past the swirl of perfumed air and polite conversation.
I keep my head down, weaving between clusters of guests, searching for an exit before Emil can catch me. The urge to run wars with the need to look composed; every instinct tells me he’s somewhere behind me, eyes burning a path across my shoulders.
The air feels thick, charged, heavy, like the city before a storm. I can’t breathe, can’t focus. Matteo’s warning echoes in my ears, his grip still warm on my arm, but it’s not Matteo I fear right now. It’s Emil. He’s always at the edge of my vision, tall and silent, a shadow carved from stone.
I try to spot my uncle in the crowd. Vittorio, king of the evening, is surrounded by admirers and sycophants. If I can just get to him, maybe I’ll have a shield.
The crush of bodies keeps me penned in, and I don’t have time to play the dutiful niece. I need to get out, find air, think. I edge toward the terrace doors, hoping no one notices, praying Matteo is distracted by his friends.
I can feel Emil watching. Even when I can’t see him, his gaze is a wire wound tight around my ribs. My throat is dry. I move faster, skirting the tables, hands curled into fists around my clutch. Just a few more steps, I tell myself. Just make it to the door—
