And that's how I know I'm in trouble.
Chapter three
Opening Night Disaster
Sonya
The burgundy silk dress was a mistake.
I realize this the moment I slip it on at five o'clock, three hours before the gallery opening. It flows like a stage costume, moves like I'm about to perform instead of smile politely at collectors who want to discuss provenance and investment value.
But I wear it anyway. Because if Anton is watching—and he's definitely watching—I want him to know that I'm not hiding. Not anymore.
The dress is armor disguised as elegance. The silk covers the scars on my ankle, the heels are low enough that I won't limp,and the deep red makes me look alive, defiant, instead of haunted.
Mostly.
I check my reflection one more time in the full-length mirror. Dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun, minimal makeup, the pendant my mother gave me before she died—a small Orthodox cross on a delicate chain. I look like what I am: a successful gallery owner preparing for a major exhibition.
The intercom buzzes. Maya, my assistant, confirms the catering is set up, the champagne is chilling, and the security team I hired this morning is in position.
Extra security. For a gallery opening. Because I'm definitely not paranoid about my psychotic ex-partner showing up to finish what he started five years ago.
I take the private stairs down from my apartment to the gallery, my heels clicking against the hardwood. The space looks perfect—track lighting highlighting the exhibition pieces, servers in black and white positioned strategically, champagne flutes catching the light like tiny promises.
"Lost Romanov Treasures" reads the banner above the main display. Three Fabergé eggs. Imperial porcelain. Jeweled icons. The kind of Russian art that makes wealthy people feel cultured and connected to history they had nothing to do with.
The kind of art that moves through Bratva channels when people need to convert dirty money into something clean and beautiful.
Not that I ask questions about where my consignment pieces come from. That would be bad for business.
Maya appears at my elbow, tablet in hand, looking effortlessly chic in all black. She's twenty-six, whip-smart. Which is exactly why I hired her.
"Final checklist," she says, scrolling through her screen. "Catering confirmed, champagne temperature optimal, security positioned at all entrances, press list approved, collector RSVPs at eighty-three percent—"
"The security team," I interrupt her. "They understand they're here for the valuable pieces, and not for... anything else?"
She looks up, her expression carefully neutral. "I told them exactly what you said. High-value exhibition, insurance requirement, standard protocol."
"Good." I smooth my dress, even though it doesn't need smoothing. "And if anyone asks why we have armed guards at an art opening—"
"Insurance requirement. Worth repeating." Maya touches my arm briefly. "Sonya, are you okay? You've been off all week."
All week. Since Tuesday night when the Fabergé egg arrived at midnight. Since I realized Anton is in New York and I have no idea what he's planning.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just nervous about the opening. This is our biggest exhibition yet."
She doesn't believe me. But she's too professional to push. "Doors open at seven. Collectors start arriving at seven-fifteen, usually. Press is scheduled for seven-thirty. You'll do great."
She squeezes my arm and moves off to check on the servers, leaving me alone in the center of my gallery surrounded by priceless Russian art and the weight of everything I'm not saying.
The Fabergé eggs gleam under the lights. The two from my collection—one decorated with miniature portraits of the Romanov family, the other with intricate enamel work in deep blues and golds. Both worth more than most people make in a lifetime.
The third egg, the loaner from London, is the centerpiece. Slightly larger, covered in diamonds and pearls, with a surprise mechanism inside that reveals a tiny golden carriage. It's the kind of piece museums fight over, the kind of art that makes collectors salivate.
It's also not the egg Anton sent me.
His egg—the one currently locked in my office safe—is something else entirely. Older, rarer, probably worth twice what this piece is worth. And he justgaveit to me, along with a threat.
