The Iron Reapers are here. Not just Riot. Mason stands near the bar in a tux that looks almost offensive on him, broad shoulders straining against clean lines that were never meant to contain men like that. Blade is near one of the pillars, expression unreadable, scanning exits out of habit. Rev lingers near a cluster of guests, smiling like he belongs, eyes sharp as glass beneath the charm. Even Dagger is here, posture relaxed, gaze anything but. They look wrong in tuxedos. They also look dangerous in a way that does not require weapons.
Papa and Mason agreed this was the best move. Visible alignment. No ambiguity. No room for Konstantin to pretend this is isolated or emotional. I am not entirely convinced flooding a ballroom with armed bikers is subtle. But that decision is above my pay grade tonight. I have enough to manage.
I feel Konstantin before I see him. The shift in energy is immediate. Conversations subtly slow. Heads angle just enough to observe without appearing to. He begins moving toward us, but he does not reach me first. His parents do.
Mrs. Orlovsky arrives in a gown that cost more than most houses, posture immaculate, diamonds resting at her throat like proof of lineage. Mr. Orlovsky walks beside her, expressionpleasant and carefully neutral. “Anastasiya,” his mother says warmly, as if we are greeting at a holiday dinner instead of standing on a fracture line. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you,” I reply evenly. “So do you.”
Her gaze lingers just a second too long, searching for cracks. Mr. Orlovsky inclines his head toward Papa. “It has been too long.”
“Too long,” Papa agrees smoothly. There is history in that exchange. Decades of calculated cooperation. Shared enemies. Shared profits. Shared expectations.
Mrs. Orlovsky reaches for my hands lightly, the gesture maternal and performative at once. “We were so relieved when we heard you were safe.”
Safe. I hold her gaze. “I was fortunate,” I say.
Her fingers tighten slightly before releasing me.
“We are grateful to everyone who assisted in your recovery,” Mr. Orlovsky adds, eyes flicking briefly toward the Reapers across the room. The message is subtle but unmistakable.We see them, we acknowledge their presence, and we do not approve.
“This evening should calm unnecessary speculation,” Mrs. Orlovsky says gently.
“Should it?” I ask.
Her smile does not falter. “Of course. Stability reassures investors.”
Konstantin finally steps into place beside them. He looks impeccable. Controlled. Unbothered.
Only I notice the tightness at the corners of his eyes. “Anastasiya,” he says smoothly.
“Konstantin.”
His gaze flickers once, almost imperceptibly, toward Riot across the room before returning to me. “You look radiant,” he says.
“I feel clear,” I reply.
His jaw tightens by a fraction. Mrs. Orlovsky’s hand settles lightly at her son’s arm. “We are all very proud of how composed you’ve handled recent events,” she says to me.
I meet her eyes. “Composure,” I say softly, “is learned.”
Konstantin steps slightly closer, enough that cameras will catch it, not enough to touch me. “We will speak later,” he murmurs under his breath.
“In public,” I reply just as quietly. His expression flickers, just for a second.
I can feel Riot watching from across the room, but I don’t look at him, not yet. Tonight is a chessboard, and everyone is finally in position.
The host’s voice carries over the orchestra, polished and smooth, inviting everyone to take their seats. Applause follows, measured and controlled, and servers begin guiding guests toward their assigned places.
Papa offers me his arm, and we move together toward our table. I am seated between Konstantin and my father. Konstantin to my left, immaculate in his tuxedo, posture composed, expression effortless for the cameras. Papa to my right, solid and unreadable. Across from us sit Mr. and Mrs. Orlovsky,their smiles curated and calm. Dmitri and Mikhail complete the table, positioned close enough to observe everything without appearing defensive.
Across the ballroom, the Reapers occupy their own table. Their wives sit beside them, elegant and alert, eyes taking in more than they reveal. Mason leans toward his wife as if sharing something private, but his gaze scans the room in steady sweeps. Blade’s wife appears relaxed, though nothing in her posture is unguarded. Rev’s woman smiles at something he murmurs, yet her attention never fully leaves the perimeter.
The separation is strategic. We are aligned without being merged. Present without being dependent.
Konstantin leans slightly toward me as wine is poured. “This is appropriate,” he murmurs.
“For whom?” I ask quietly.
