34
Mary
By the time I allow myself to breathe smoothly, it’s only because my body’s decided survival requires oxygen. I keep my eyes on the water glass so I don’t have to meet Timofey’s again. That’s when a reporter in a white blazer and too much confidence swoops in with a cameraman and portable light rig. The logo on the mic glints under the chandelier—CNBC Moneyline.
Great. National broadcast. No pressure.
“Mr. Whitfield!” she beams, already signaling the videographer to roll. “Rachel Lawson, CNBC Moneyline. May we grab a quick moment?”
Caleb straightens instantly. “Of course.”
The light hits me like an interrogation. My face must look like it’s auditioning for witness protection.
Rachel turns to me. “And you are?”
Caleb jumps in. “Mary Sullivan—one of our associates at Brightside National. She’s been instrumental in coordinating tonight’s fundraiser.”
“Lovely,” Rachel says, smiling right through me. “Tell us, what makes this evening special for Brightside?”
I open my mouth, but Caleb’s already answering. “It’s about community. Hope. Partnerships that matter.”
I nod along, pretending to agree, mostly to keep my face from doing the wrong thing.
The cameraman lowers his rig, murmurs thanks, and they move on to corner the senator. My vision spots for a second from the lights, and when it clears, I realize Timofey’s watching again. Not smiling. Just… watching.
I drop my gaze, pretending to adjust my napkin, anything to break the connection. That’s when movement catches at the edge of my vision—a dark suit near the back of the room, tall, still, too familiar to mistake.
For a second, I think I’m imagining him. That my nerves have decided to hallucinate six feet of Russian danger just to keep things interesting. But then the man shifts, profile cuttingthrough the light—sharp jaw, green eyes catching a glint from the chandelier.
Anton.
My pulse jumps like it’s been waiting for him all night. It shouldn’t. Not here. Not now.
I can’t tell if I’m relieved or terrified. Both hit at once; heat under my skin, air caught in my throat. He’s watching me, but every part of me wants to look away before someone notices. Beforehegets noticed.
I drag a breath in, hold it, force a polite smile toward the woman beside me. She doesn’t even glance up, too busy slicing her entrée like it insulted her. My hand stays steady on the table, even though my heartbeat isn’t.
I risk another look toward the back.
My heart kicks against my ribs so hard I’m afraid someone will hear it, that he’ll get spotted, that this entire room will tilt and expose everything we’re hiding.
Anton’s gaze sweeps the ballroom, methodical, controlled. Then it lands on me.
For one second—maybe two—we lock eyes.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Just looks at me like he’s making sure I’m still breathing.
Then someone steps in front of him. A waiter with a tray. And when the waiter moves, Anton’s gone.
Swallowed back into the crowd like he was never there.
Then the lights dim.
The string quartet fades mid-note. Someone at the front taps a mic, and the low hum of anticipation drifts through the room like fog.
Caleb leans in, whispering, “This is the fun part.”
A massive projection screen flickers to life behind the stage. In gold script:“Together for Tomorrow: A Fundraiser for Futures.”
