“Bring me the bottle. Open it in front of me.” Roman still hasn’t looked at him. “If your hand shakes, you’re fired.”
The waiter practically runs.
Roman’s expression never changes. He’s already forgotten the man exists. The waiter is a ghost. The wine is a prop. And Roman is the only real thing in the room.
I map the room with the part of my brain that never stops working: Vadim holding court near a Kandinsky, three Chechen soldiers by the north exit, snipers on the balcony dressed as waiters. A blonde woman in emerald silk watches Roman from across the ballroom with the kind of hunger that makes my stomach tighten.
“Polina Tarasova.” Roman’s voice is bored. “I knew she’d be here. She’s Vadim’s pawn.”
“You wanted her to come?”
“I wanted you to see her.” His thumb strokes the nape of my neck once. “So you’d know exactly how little she matters, and no one can use her against you.”
Before I can respond, she’s crossing the ballroom toward us.
She stops too close, perfume hitting me first—tuberose. She’s beautiful, and she knows it, emerald silk cut low, blonde hair swept up, pale eyes fixed on Roman with the kind of familiarity that makes me want to claw her face off.
“Roman.” Her voice is honey and venom. “It’s been too long.”
“Not long enough.” He doesn’t look at her. He’s watching me.
Polina’s smile flickers, then recovers. “How rude. I came to welcome your wife to Moscow society.” Her eyes find mine and hold. “We have so much in common, after all. We’ve both spent time in Roman’s bed.”
My blood turns to ice. Every muscle in my body locks tight, screaming at me to run, but I force my feet to stay planted. She’s baiting me. I know it. I don’t care. I just want to tear her throat out with my teeth.
“Though I imagine your experiences are quite different.” She tilts her head. “Roman always did have evolving tastes. Tell me—does he still do that thing with his tongue?”
Heat floods my face before I can stop it.
She notices. Her smile widens. “He does. How lovely. At least he’s consistent.”
“You know, Polina,” I step closer and let my voice drop to something cold. “Perfume can’t hide it. The smell of desperation. It’s acrid. It’s sour. And it’s coming off you in waves.”
Her smile freezes.
“I’d tell you to keep your hands to yourself, but I know how hard it is for fading stars to stay relevant without clinging to a Volkov. So let me make this simple.”
I lean in close enough to see her pupils dilate.
“Take your hand off my husband. Or I’ll ruin that face you paid a fortune for, and no amount of Botox will fix it.”
Silence.
Polina’s hand—which had been drifting toward Roman’s arm—drops to her side. Her fingers tremble, and I feel a petty, vicious satisfaction curl through me.
Roman looks down at me, his eyes dark with a pride that borders on violent.
“You heard her.” His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through my chest. “And if she decides to break your wrist for touching me, I’m going to stand here and watch.”
Polina’s smile turns sharp and brittle. “How refreshing. When Roman gets bored playing house with his chemistry project—”
“Polina.” My voice stays bored, dismissive. “The only thing interesting about you is watching how fast you walk away. Start now.”
She leaves.
Roman’s hand tightens on my nape, and when I look up at him, his eyes are burning.
“You just destroyed her in front of half of Moscow’s elite.”
