Valentina leans forward. “Give him a chance. You never know.”
Her voice is kind. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
I nod once because fighting it won’t change anything. “Right.”
Alessia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “He’s a good man, Mara. Strong. Respected.”
“Men in our world are never ‘good’ men,” I whisper, too quietly for anyone to answer.
The bell over the door jingles and I glance up, half out of habit. A tall man steps inside—broad shoulders, black coat, sharp features softened only by the faintest curve of a polite smile. His gaze sweeps the room once before landing on our table.
Valentina straightens. “That’s him.”
Orlo Chernov.
He walks toward us with the easy confidence of a man who never has to introduce himself twice. His accent is faint when he speaks, smooth and deliberate.
“Ladies,” he says with a small nod. “I hope I’m not late.”
“Right on time,” Valentina says, smiling.
He takes the seat across from me. Up close, he’s all precision: clean lines, cold eyes, and the kind of presence that demands attention without raising his voice.
“Mara.” He holds out a hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
I stare at it for a second before shaking it. His grip is firm, controlled. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“Likewise,” I manage.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Funny,” I say quietly. “I can’t say the same.”
Valentina gives me a warning glance. I ignore it. The conversation drifts—formal, polite, shallow. I answer when spoken to, smile when required, nod when expected. It feels like watching someone else play me from a distance.
At some point, I glance out the window again. The sun’s dipped lower now, painting the city in gold. A car with black tinted windows passes by…and for a second, my breath catches.
For a stupid, fleeting moment, I think it might be him. It isn’t.
When I turn back, Orlo is watching me, expression unreadable. “You look distracted.”
“I was. I’m not anymore.”
He smiles faintly. “Good. Distraction is dangerous.”
I hold his gaze.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’ve learned that.”
43
MARA
The binder is heavier than it looks. Cream leather, gold edges, tabs like little flags. I flip a page and pretend to read.
Silks. Florals. Venues with perfect light. Every photo looks like a life that belongs to someone else.
Duchess sprawls across my lap with the indifference of royalty, purring like a machine left running. My fingers move through her fur without thinking—slow strokes, same path, over and over. It’s something to do with my hands while women I love talk about a day that doesn’t feel like mine.
