“I’m Alya,” she says, confirming what I already guessed. Each step she takes is precise and deliberate in her tiny kitten heels. “You ran away. That was stupid.”
“Alya,” Natasha warns, but there’s a tremor in her voice. Even the makeup artist has backed up a step.
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, though nothing about this is fine. “She’s right. It was stupid.”
Alya tilts her head, studying me like I’m a particularly interesting science experiment. “Not just stupid.Dangerous.”
The way she says “dangerous” sends a chill down my spine. No child should understand that word the way she clearly does.
“I know,” I whisper.
She nods, seemingly satisfied with my acknowledgment of my own mortality. Then, without warning, she reaches up andstraightens the necklace that’s been half-choking me for the past twenty minutes.
“You need to center this. It looks crooked.” Her tiny fingers are surprisingly gentle. “Papa picked it out himself. He said it matches your eyes.”
Something warm and confusing flutters in my chest. I ruthlessly squash it.
“That’s… thoughtful of him,” I manage as Natasha takes advantage of my momentary stillness to attack my hair with renewed vigor.
Alya shrugs. “He’s thoughtful about things that matter.” Her eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. “Do you matter?”
The question feels like a trap.
“I—”
“Fifteen minutes!” someone yelps, and the frenzy intensifies. Blue Nails returns to assault my face with powder while someone else is literally sewing me into the back of this dress.
“Hold out your hand,” Natasha commands, pulling something from her pocket.
A ring box snaps open to reveal a diamond so massive it could probably be seen from space. My first time seeing it, and I’m already intimidated.
“It won’t fit,” I mutter, but Natasha’s already grabbing my finger, sliding on the diamond that could double as a paperweight in a hurricane. It slides on perfectly, catching the light in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“It fits,” I say stupidly.
“Papa made sure,” Alya says, watching the diamond with calculating eyes.
I blink. “That’s—”
“Romantic?” she suggests.
“Creepy,” I correct.
To my surprise, she grins—a flash of something impish and almost normal.
“That’s what I said. But Nikolai thinks it’s romantic.”
“Nikolai?”
“My brother. I have two. They’re twins. Nikolai’s the boring one.” She says this with the casual cruelty only children can manage. “Lev’s more fun, but he punches people too much.”
Great. More mini-Konstantins to look forward to.
“You’re pretty,” Alya announces suddenly, watching as someone dusts my collarbones with something shimmery. “But Papa says he won’t spend more time with you than me.”
“That’s…” I search for an appropriate response. “Fair?”
“It is fair,” she agrees solemnly. “Because I was here first, and Papa says loyalty matters more than anything. Even pretty faces.”
