She nudges me, voice conspiratorial. “If you say so. You’re blushing, by the way. Come on, we have a floral emergency at table four, and you’re the only one they’ll listen to.”
I let her pull me back into the current of work, her chatter filling the space Aleksander left behind. But even as we cross the room, I catch myself glancing back, just once, searching for the silhouette by the bar—tall, calm, and impossible to ignore.
I tell myself I’m just being careful. That I don’t care.
But as Maya starts listing off tonight’s next crisis, I realize I can still hear Aleksander’s voice in my ear, low and dangerous, saying my name like it’s a secret.
And my heart, stupidly, is still skipping beats.
The evening blurs into a cycle of small disasters and near misses—Maya waving frantically from the kitchen, servers running behind, last-minute changes to the seating chart. I’m doing my best to keep everything smooth, but by the time appetizers are served, I can feel the tension gathering in my neck and shoulders.
It all comes to a head when one of the VIP guests—a red-faced man with a loud voice and too much cologne—snaps his fingers and calls me over in front of half the room. “Excuse me, are you actually in charge here? My wife is allergic to shellfish and there is shrimp in the salad. This is unacceptable. Are you even listening? I said no shellfish. Can’t you follow the simplest instructions?”
The room seems to shrink. Every eye turns. I try to explain, try to apologize, but the man keeps talking over me, louder each time. “If you can’t get this right, I’ll call your boss myself. Unbelievable.”
Maya’s at my elbow, trying to help, but it’s too late. The humiliation cuts straight through me. I murmur an apology, assure him I’ll handle it, and escape as soon as I can. I barelyremember how I make it up the stairs, to the small lounge on the mezzanine level—a little balcony overlooking the main hall, dim and mostly empty.
I sink into a chair behind a decorative pillar, pressing my hands to my face, fighting back tears. I’m so tired of being invisible until something goes wrong. Tired of feeling so small, so out of place, like I’m always a mistake away from being exposed.
I try to get a grip, breathing quietly, but a tear slips free and I can’t quite stop the next one.
That’s when I hear footsteps. I look up, startled, and Aleksander is there, the light catching on his dark hair, his jacket slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just takes in my blotchy face and red eyes, and for a second he’s not the dangerous man from downstairs, just a man who sees me.
He crouches beside me, close enough to touch but leaving the choice up to me. “Rough night?” His voice is low, gentle in a way I didn’t expect.
I try to laugh but it breaks. “I’m fine. Just…tired of being yelled at, I guess.”
He watches me for a long moment, eyes steady and quiet. “You shouldn’t let them talk to you like that.”
I shake my head, wiping my face. “Comes with the job. I’m just supposed to handle it.”
“People like that only yell because they’re used to people shrinking away. You’re not small, Isabella.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. I look at him, really look, and for the first time all night, I don’t feel invisible.
He reaches up, brushes a stray tear from my cheek with the back of his finger, his touch surprisingly careful. “You deserve better.”
I don’t know what happens next—if he leans in first or if I do—but suddenly our mouths find each other, and the tension from the night melts into something hotter, messier, real. I taste whiskey and something dark on his lips. His hands slide into my hair, his body pressing against mine as I cling to his shoulders, desperate for the feeling of being wanted instead of needed.
For a few dizzy minutes, nothing else matters. There’s just Aleksander’s mouth, Aleksander’s hands, the heat and ache and rush of being seen. I lose myself in it, letting him kiss me like I’m not made of glass after all.
He kisses me like he’s starving, his hands roaming, making me dizzy. His lips find my ear, voice low and hungry. “Come with me. Let’s get out of here.”
The words snap me back—just a little. “But the party…Maya—” My brain scrambles for reasons, for responsibilities I should care about.
Aleksander only smiles, dangerous and sure. “I’ll take care of it.”
I try to laugh it off, but his hand is already tangled in my hair, his thumb tracing my cheek. “Aleksander, I can’t just leave in the middle of?—”
He cuts me off with another kiss, this one deeper, harder. “Do you really want to go back out there?” His eyes search mine, dark and knowing.
I swallow. My skin tingles where his hands touch me. I shake my head, breathless.
He grins—slow, wicked, almost boyish, and yet utterly certain of me. “Good,” he murmurs, taking my hand and guiding me toward the elevator tucked behind the lounge. He makes a quick call as we move, speaking quietly in Russian, voice low and commanding. By the time the elevator doors open, his hand is already at my waist again, holding me close.
I blink, heat blooming in my chest. “Just like that?”
His eyes glint, all teeth and danger—a Cheshire cat with a secret. “Just like that,” he says, voice rough.
