Then, despite his tense posture, Kirill opens my door in a smooth movie star-like motion. After he helps me out, he rests a hand on the small of my back.
Through my dress, his energy crackles against my skin, a live current masked by expensive fabric.
“Try to smile.” I doubt my own expression passes for anything but terror. “The car will be parked on the other side of that hill, out of sight but not far.” I figure knowing the fastest getaway route will help him stay calm.
His mouth twitches in a shadow of a smile so brittle, a light breeze would shatter the illusion.
We climb the marble steps, each heel-strike echoing like a countdown. Closer, closer, the entrance yawns ahead.
The party noise bleeds through the doors, all the crystal laughter, honeyed voices, and strings playing ghosts from my memory.
Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and my footsteps stutter.
Kirill’s palm curves firmly into my lower back, propelling me forward.
A reminder that we have a mission.
We’re here for the safe, and nothing else matters.
Once we step through the threshold of the open doors, the crowd swallows us whole. There’s no turning back now.
The ballroom is an aquarium of light, crystal dripping from the chandeliers like stalactites, every surface gleaming. Hundreds of people move in predictable, predatory currents. Air kisses. Champagne toasts. The glittering industry of status. Expensive spices and perfumes all mingle into a nausea-inducing cloud of scent. Half the faces I know from the society columns. The rest, I recognize from my nightmares.
Conversation mutes the clack of countless heels on white marble. Heavy tapestries and oil paintings line the walls, dampening the reverb and disguising the cold emptiness of the space.
I suck in a breath.
I can do this.
As we enter the gala, the voices keep flowing, but now there are eddies. Heads turn as eyes catch and dart away. People sense the difference in Kirill. Even under perfect tailoring, they smell the threat.
By my side, Kirill radiates otherness.
Dresses and suit legs part, swirl, and shift as the crowd notes our presence and weighs our worth.
Under the rows of blazing, heatless chandeliers, on the backdrop of manicured lawns and priceless artwork, we are measured, scrutinized, evaluated, and catalogued.
A big man with a politician’s handshake and a donor’s smile approaches us first. Senator Hargrove. My mother’s favorite muscle in the state legislature.
“Jordan Thorne!” His booming greeting, loud enough to draw more stares, reeks of bourbon and campaign trail. “As I live and breathe. It’s wonderful to see you, my girl!” My hand disappears in both of his, squeezed too hard. Then he shifts to Kirill, his fingers outstretched. “And who might this be?”
I dig my nails into Kirill’s arm. Play along. Don’t break the guy. He’s just a politician.
For a second, Kirill hesitates, his jaw going rigid. But then he reaches out and engulfs the senator’s offered hand. The smile on Hargrove’s face flickers and cracks.
“Ken Barlow. Commodities.” A beat passes, like he’s flipping through a script. “Fascinating.”
The word just lies between us, flat, final, and awkward as hell.
I suppress a hysterical giggle.
We just got here, and it’s already a nightmare.
Senator Hargrove reclaims his hand and rubs his fingers. “A…firm grip you’ve got there, Ken.” He glances at me with wide eyes. “Well, I’m sure your mother will be thrilled to see you both. If you’ll excuse me…”
He vanishes, folding himself back into the swarm.
If the floor opened up, I’d be the first to jump.
