Her voice is devastating. Beautiful in a way that makes my throat tight. It crawls under my skin and settles in my chest and makes me ache with emotions I can't name and don't want to examine.
She sings of cold hands meeting in darkness. Of warmth shared. Of recognition and fear and the particular terror of wanting a life you're not sure you deserve.
The aria builds. Her voice climbing higher. Reaching for impossible notes that she hits with perfect clarity.
She sings about choosing love despite poverty. Despite uncertainty. Despite every logical reason to protect yourself and walk away.
It's too close. Too raw. Like the music is reaching inside me and pulling out every secret I've been trying to hide even from myself.
I built walls to survive. Turned trauma into armor. Became strong enough that I thought no one could hurt me again. Swore I'd never be vulnerable. Never be dependent. Never need anyone enough to break if they left.
But these men have dismantled those walls piece by piece. Made me want things I swore I'd never want. Made me believe in safety I was certain didn't exist. Made me need them in ways that terrify me.
I feel Maksim's hand find mine in the darkness. His fingers lacing through mine with gentle but deliberate pressure. Grounding me. Connecting us.
On my other side, Zakhar's thigh presses against mine through layers of silk and wool. Solid. Warm. Present. His heat bleeding through the fabric.
The music swells. The soprano's voice soaring toward the climax of the aria. Singing about seeing someone truly and choosing them anyway.
My chest feels too tight. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
The act ends. The soprano's final note hanging in the air. Then silence. Perfect. Breathless. Before applause erupts like thunder.
The curtain falls. The lights come up gradually. The spell breaks with almost physical force.
Around us, people begin to move. Stand. Stretch with the particular relief of bodies held still too long. Head toward the bar and lobby where intermission socializing happens. Where deals are made and alliances are forged under the guise of cultural appreciation.
We join the flow. Move as a unit through the narrow doorway. Down carpeted stairs. Into the crowded bar area that smells like expensive alcohol and competing perfumes.
The space fills quickly. Voices rise. Laughter echoes off marble walls. The particular energy of wealthy people performing wealth for each other. Maintaining the social contracts that keep their world spinning.
Maksim is immediately engaged by a city councilman. A man with silver hair and a politician's smile. They talk about development projects and zoning laws and infrastructure investment. Things that sound boring to outsiders but areactually about money and power and who controls what parts of the city.
Zakhar stands close to me. Close enough that his arm brushes mine when he moves. Watchful. His eyes scanning the crowd with the particular awareness that never fully turns off. Analyzing faces. Noting exits. Assessing threats.
Alexei disappears toward the bar. Weaves through the crowd with easy charm. Returns moments later with a flute of champagne. Crystal catching the light. Tiny bubbles rising in perfect streams. Offers it to me with that grin that makes my stomach flip and my defenses crumble.
I look at the glass.
I don't drink alcohol. Haven't in years. Not since I learned that accepting drinks from men can cost you pieces of yourself you'll never get back.
The control it costs, the vulnerability it creates, the way it dulls awareness and weakens defenses, has never been worth whatever social ease it might provide.
And I don't drink from anything I didn't open myself. Don't take glasses from other people's hands. Don't trust that what I see is what I'm getting.
But Alexei is looking at me with open affection. With trust that feels like a gift.
He's not some stranger in a mask. He's Alexei. Who kissed me this morning and said I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
I hold his gaze. Let him see me making the choice. Choosing to trust him in this small way that feels enormous. That costs more than he probably realizes.
I take the flute. Wrap my fingers around cool crystal. Raise it to my lips. Sip.
The champagne is cold. Crisp. The bubbles burst on my tongue, dry and bright and effervescent. It tastes like celebration. Like belonging. Like the particular happiness of being exactly where you're supposed to be with exactly the people you're meant to be with.
Alexei's smile widens. Transforms his face. Like I've given him a treasure instead of just accepting a drink.
We move through the crowd. Faces that blur together in a sea of wealth and privilege. Zakhar is a solid presence at my back, his hand occasionally touching my waist to guide me. Alexei charming everyone within a three-foot radius without even trying, his energy infectious.
