The limousine is already waiting when I step out of The Commons. It’s black, polished like obsidian, and horribly familiar.
My grandmother always did have a flair for intimidation.
I smooth my palms down my coat, steady my breath, and climb inside.
She’s sitting in the back with the posture of a queen and the poise of a woman who was—according to rumors I was never allowed to confirm—once trained to lie, and seduce on behalf of a special organization, before she met my grandfather.
Her silver hair is pinned in a perfect twist, not a strand out of place. Her gloves are cream leather. Her brooch is sapphire. And her English, when she greets me, is smoother than the porcelain teacup waiting for us at tea time.
“Hello, my dear,” she says. “You look tired.”
I swallow hard. “It’s… opening week.”
“I know.” She says. “I watched.”
I blink. “You… watched my opening night?”
Her crimson-painted lips curve into a smile. “As if I would miss it?”
Warmth hits my chest so suddenly that it surprises me. “You watched,” I whisper again, this time to myself.
“Of course.” She waves a gloved hand dismissively. “Your arabesque line has improved. Your turns are cleaner. But your finale jump was short by two centimeters. Perhaps nerves?”
My cheeks heat. “Perhaps.” She could have found more wrong with my performance. She has a keen eye for ballet, which means she’s complimenting me in the best way she can.
The car glides toward the Fairmont—the hotel that still serves tea the exact way my grandmother expects it: boiling hot, fragrant, and accompanied by staff that understands you never clear a cup until the guest puts her napkin on the table.
We sit in the private tea salon, a room dripping with gold trim and quiet elegance. Between the heavy curtains, the crystal chandeliers, and the pianist in the corner gently playing music, it is the closest thing my grandmother has to her favorite tea house in Russia.
This is her home-field advantage.
The server pours Koporye Tea, the only tea my grandmother drinks before noon, and then leaves us alone.
My grandmother studies me for a long, heavy moment. “You’ve created quite a stir in the Popovich family household.”
The words land like a strike to the ribs.
“Your father believes you abandoned your responsibilities. Your place. Your duty.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “I didn’t abandon anything.”
“Oh?” Her voice softens in a way that’s somehow more dangerous. “Then tell me, why are you here instead of in Moscow? You were given time to study in New York, to follow in your mother’s footsteps with the understanding that once your father found your rightful place in the family, you would return home. Why are you married to an American hockey player instead of fulfilling your engagement contract with Maxim?”
“I didn’t know about Maxim until Father dropped the information on me. And I was already in love with someone else,” I say quietly.
Her brows lift. “In love.”
“Yes.”
“Well.” She stirs her tea once, delicately. “That is what I am here to decide.”
My throat tightens.
Her gaze sharpens. “Your mother was a romantic, too. It made life difficult for her.”
But then her voice shifts—cooler now. Strategic.
“And tell me,” she says, “are you consummating this marriage?”
