1
Sasha
The Fabergé egg in front of me is a fake. And I’m about to ruin someone’s very expensive night.
I adjust the jeweler’s loupe and lean closer over the Imperial Winter Egg. The craftsmanship is exquisite. Whoever made this forgery knew what they were doing.
But the gold alloy is wrong, and the microscopic maker’s marks don’t match Carl Fabergé’s workshop standards. Close, but not close enough to fool someone who spent two years authenticating pieces at Christie’s London.
“Ms. Kozlov?” Artur Andrin, the gallery owner, hovers at my elbow like a nervous bird. “What do you think?”
“Give me another minute.”
I tried booking a plane ticket back to London three times in the past two weeks.
Every time, I stare at the booking page, picture Knightsbridge and Christie’s, and almost press confirm.
Then I hit “cancel” and unpack again.
Leaving Moscow felt wrong after watching my brother Alexei marry Mila at the estate. My brothers have spent years keeping me safe from the uglier parts of our family business.
They never asked me to come home and help shoulder the weight they carry. Maybe that’s why I stay—to prove I’m more than the baby sister they have to shield from reality.
“Well?” Andrin’s voice climbs an octave. “Is it authentic?”
I straighten and remove the loupe. “Unfortunately, no. It’s a superb forgery, probably created within the past decade using period-appropriate materials. But it’s not genuine.”
The blood drains from Andrin’s face. “That’s impossible. I have provenance going back to?—”
“Then it’s forged, too.” I nod toward the guests. “You haven’t announced the acquisition yet, right?”
“The unveiling is in twenty minutes.”
“Cancel it.” I pull out my phone to photograph the piece for my records. “Unless you want to explain to your collectors why you’re selling them a fake.”
Andrin makes a strangled sound and rushes off to do damage control. I snap a few more photos of the egg’s base, where the inconsistencies are most obvious. Christie’s taught me to document everything, especially the fakes.
Someone clears their throat behind me.
“That’s quite the eye you have.”
I turn and find myself face-to-face with Tony Haugh, the American journalist who asked entirely too many questions at Alexei’s wedding reception.
The same man my eldest brother, Dmitri, pulled me aside to warn me about with that look—the one that says this is an order, not a suggestion, especially when it comes to older men who sniff around his baby sister.
When the family Pakhan tells you to stay away from someone, you obey.
Even if that someone has crystal blue eyes that tracked me all night like I was the only person in the room. Even if his slow, easy smile made my stomach flip when he introduced himself at the bar.
And now that he’s standing this close, something I didn’t fully clock at the wedding snaps into focus.
Tony Haugh isbig.
Not bodybuilder—just solid. Broad through the shoulders, thick in the chest, the kind of size that makes a crowded room feel smaller.
He’s taller than I remembered, too. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes, and I hate that my body registers it as safety and danger at the same time.
He’s in a charcoal suit that fits him well, just not quite as perfectly as my brothers’ bespoke tailoring. His hair is shorter since the wedding, cleaner at the sides, and a little longer on top. The new style sharpens his jawline and draws attention to the thin scar bisecting his left eyebrow… and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that say he’s got a few years on me.
