I introduce Maksim to the right people with practiced ease. Point out the alderman whose support he'll need for zoning permits. The philanthropist who sits on three charity boards. The lawyer whose firm handles contracts for half the city's construction projects.
Each introduction is strategic. Calculated. I'm building his network one handshake at a time, fulfilling my end of our bargain with professional precision.
At one point, I steer him toward a man holding court near the bar. Robert Morrison. Polished, ambitious, positioning himself for a Senate run next year.
"Mr. Morrison," I say, charm dripping from every syllable like honey. "I'd like you to meet my husband, Maksim Severyn."
Morrison's eyes light with interest. Money recognizes money.
"The shipping magnate," he says, extending his hand. "I've heard impressive things about Novastar Freight."
I let them exchange pleasantries, then step back, giving them space to conduct whatever business brought us here. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. I need to powder my nose."
It's a lie. I just need air. Need a moment away from performing, from smiling, from being the perfect conduit for their ambitions.
I find a quieter corner of the room, away from the main crush of bodies. Near the windows where I can see Chicago glittering below like scattered diamonds on black velvet.
Footsteps approach. I don't turn, assuming it's another guest wanting to network.
"You've been nursing the same champagne all evening."
Zakhar's voice, low, close, making me turn to face him.
I look down at the flute in my hand. He's right. I've been carrying it for an hour, taking pretend sips without actual consumption.
"I noticed you don't drink alcohol," he says, and there's a shift in his tone. Gentler than I've heard it. "Brought you this instead. Ginger ale. Looks like champagne. Keeps up appearances."
He extends a flute toward me. Identical to the one I'm holding except for the contents.
"It's a peace offering," he adds quietly. "And an apology."
I set down my champagne. Take the ginger ale. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and the contact registers like electricity up my arm.
It's more than just not drinking alcohol. I don't drink anything I haven't opened myself, haven't watched being poured. Paranoia born from experience, from knowing what can be slipped into drinks when you're not watching.
But I don't tell him that.
We look at each other for a long moment. The gala noise fades to background hum.
"Zakhar, I—"
"Victoria, I need to—"
We both start talking at once. Stop. The moment would be almost funny if it weren't so charged with tension.
I laugh despite myself. "You first."
Before he can respond, the lights dim.
A voice on the microphone cuts through conversation. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention. We have a very special treat this evening. One of the world's most celebrated pianists has graciously agreed to perform for us. Please welcome Emilian Saar."
The crowd erupts in applause. This is what they paid for. The centerpiece of the evening.
But Zakhar's expression has gone deadly serious.
"We need to find Maksim," he says urgently. "Now."
"Why? What's wrong?"
