Irina’s laughter rings out. “You really do know how to surprise me, Lukyan.”
She leans in, too close, and whispers something only he can hear. I see the muscles jump in his jaw, the way his gaze flickers to mine. I wonder if I’m out of my depth.
He turns to me, his touch protective, his eyes softer for a moment. “You’re with me,” he repeats, as if it’s a promise or a warning, or both.
Irina’s smirk lingers as she drifts away, leaving a shadow between us I can’t name.
The gala sprawls on, gold and crystal blurring into a haze of clinking glasses and sharp, expensive laughter.
Irina is everywhere—her laughter too loud, her red lips flashing in the crowd, her voice always just a little too pointed when she speaks to Lukyan or anyone who dares stand near him. Even in a room full of power, she moves with the easy confidence of someone who knows she can get away with anything.
At first, I try to ignore her. I busy myself with the art on the walls, with the canapés, with the polite small talk of strangers who seem eager to know who Lukyan Sharov’s new wife really is.
Irina circles closer each time I find a moment’s peace, her perfume trailing like a warning, her eyes always finding mine before they flicker to Lukyan’s arm at my waist.
She joins our conversations, her laughter a little too loud, her stories always ending with a knowing look at Lukyan.
He responds with practiced civility, his grip at my side steady but not possessive. There’s no outward sign of tension, but I can feel it thrumming in the air, every smile she gives him twisting something tight inside me.
I excuse myself to the restroom just to breathe, to see if the world feels less sharp behind a closed door. The lights are harsh, reflecting back my own anxious face, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with something I wish was anger but know is closer to jealousy.
When I step out to wash my hands, Irina is waiting, leaning against the marble countertop as if she owns it. Her smile is syrupy-sweet, eyes glittering in the mirror.
“So,” she purrs, “the famous Mrs. Sharov. You’re braver than you look, showing up here with him. Or maybe you just don’t know better yet.”
I force my lips into a polite smile, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “I know enough.”
Irina leans in, voice dropping low. “Be careful. He doesn’t stay interested for long. He likes things that burn fast—women, money, loyalty. Everything he touches gets left behind sooner or later.” Her gaze lingers on my bare ring finger, on the diamonds at my throat. “Don’t confuse the shine for something lasting, dear.”
I hold her stare, refusing to flinch. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not here to keep him interested.”
For a split second, something flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe even respect—before her smile sharpens again. She leans away, smoothing her hair, and glides out the door with a swish of silver, leaving me with my pulse racing and a hollow ache in my chest.
It’s not fear that unsettles me, it’s how much I suddenly care.
The rest of the night blurs around the edges. I let Lukyan guide me through the crowd, his hand at my back as we say our goodbyes. Irina’s laughter follows us, even after we slip out to the car, her words echoing through my mind. Every gesture between us feels loaded—every brush of his fingers, every glance, every breath. I want to ask, but I don’t. Not until the doors close and the city lights sweep past us in long, silent streaks.
We ride in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between us. I stare out the window, trying to steady mybreathing, but the question boils up and slips out before I can swallow it.
“She was your ex?” My voice is soft, almost embarrassed.
He hesitates, then nods once, his gaze on the city rushing past. “It was convenient. For both of us. She liked the danger, the parties. She never wanted more than that.” There’s a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or just exhaustion—in his eyes. “It ended when she wanted to matter more than the rest. I don’t do second chances.”
“Was this before or after…” I don’t finish.Before or after the one who died?
His expression hardens. “Before.”
His honesty, so quiet and matter-of-fact, breaks something open inside me. I study him for a long moment, searching for the edge of truth. “And me?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. “What am I?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes suddenly sharp, vulnerable in a way I rarely see. “You’re not a convenience, Clara. You’re not replaceable.” The words are rough, like he’s not used to saying them aloud. “Don’t let her make you doubt what’s real.”
I hold his gaze, not sure what that even means, only that when he says it, something deep inside me believes him.
The car slows. The driver announces our arrival. Lukyan reaches for my wrist, his touch warm, his thumb stroking over my pulse.
He leans in, voice pitched for my ears alone. “Irina’s nothing. She was the past. You’re here with me now, and I intend for it to stay that way.”
I feel the truth in his grip, in the quiet ferocity of his words, but the uncertainty lingers—a shadow I can’t quite shake.
