And then—
Natalie again, her voice glowing through the speakers.
“Tonight’sHumanitarian Distinction Awardwill be presented to Mr. Volkov for his outstanding generosity. And joining us onstage to present the award—please welcome from Brightside National Bank, Ms. Mary Sullivan.”
My name hits the air like a slap.
For a second, I can’t move.
The spotlight shifts again, snapping onto me—blinding, hot.
Applause starts like a slow boil, spreading, deepening. People turn, smiling, clapping for the banker nobody knows.
WHAT THE HELL?
Caleb is already stepping down from the stage, shaking hands as he makes his way back toward the VIP table. His grin is gleaming, the kind you polish in boardroom mirrors. When he reaches me, he leans in just enough for the cameras to catch it—a hand brushing my shoulder, a whisper meant to look supportive.
“Go on,” he says, that too-perfect smile still fixed. “You’re the face of community integrity.”
Panic punches me in the lungs.
He slides back into his chair, lifting his glass like this is just another victory toast, while I’m still frozen under three hundred watching eyes.
Natalie waits onstage, gesturing toward me with the microphone.
“Let’s give her a warm welcome!”
The spotlight hits me.
Applause starts like a slow boil.
I’m still frozen when a shadow moves beside me.
Timofey suddenly there, standing too close, that polite, powerful smile fixed for the cameras. His hand settles at the small of my back—guiding, claiming, impossible to refuse.
“After you,” he murmurs.
I try not to pass out right there.
Timofey’s hand stays firm on my back as he steers me toward the stage. The light hits us, glaring, burning. One foot, then the next. Just like walking into traffic.
Voices flicker through the earpiece—Lev, Dima, Boris—all talking at once. I can’t make out words, just the rhythm of them, sharp and urgent, blending with the applause until everything sounds the same.
Then Anton’s voice cuts through it all, low and controlled.
“Breathe, I’ve got you.”
So I do.
I breathe.
35
Anton
Istay in the shadows by the back pillar, the one with a dead zone under the chandelier glare. From here, I see everything: the stage, the VIP tables, the balcony with the camera crew. I see Mary.
She’s under the spotlight now, caught in it. Timofey steps in behind her and puts a hand at the small of her back. A polite touch for the cameras. A claim for everyone who knows what they’re looking at.
