“That you were finally bringing….” her gaze flickers to me then, and the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, “…someone. And now I see why.”
Something about her tone makes my skin prickle. I should look away, but I don’t.
“Irina,” Artyom says, steady, controlled, “this is Kira. My fiancée.”
Her eyes drag over me, slow and assessing, from the scuffed edge of my shoes to the hair I haven’t had time to brush since we landed. It’s not subtle. It’s a dissection.
“I see,” she says finally. “How… unexpected.”
The words land like a slap.
“Unexpected?” I say before I can stop myself. “Why?”
For the first time, Irina’s perfect smile falters, only for a breath, and Mikhail chokes on a laugh behind us.
Artyom glances at me, expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something dark and almost pleased.
Irina recovers fast. “I imagine it must be difficult, keeping up with Artyom, that’s all.”
“Not really,” I say. “He makes it so easy for me.”
Her brows lift, and the air goes taut. Artyom clears his throat, calm but warning. “That’s enough.”
I press my lips together, staring at the marble instead of her. My pulse is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the low murmur of the lobby. I can’t tell if it’s anger or nerves or just the leftover heat from him standing too close. I hate that I can’t tell the difference.
Irina turns back to him like I’ve already been dismissed, her smile stretching just enough to look gracious. “You’re staying here, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So are we,” she says, voice syrup-smooth, the sound of someone who’s used to winning. “My father insisted. Old friends should stay close.”
“Friends,” Mikhail mutters, too low for most people to hear. Artyom’s sharp look is instant.
Irina pretends not to notice. “He’s very eager to see you, Artyom. It’s been… what, two years? He still speaks of you often.”
“Does he?” Artyom’s tone is polite, but there’s something underneath it—something cold enough to slice through the air between them.
She tilts her head, studying him. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“It depends on what he’s saying.”
That earns him a faint smile, more teeth this time. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Her perfume drifts between us again—something floral, heavy, expensive. It makes the space feel smaller, like she’s filling every inch of it on purpose. I step back before I realize I’ve moved. Artyom’s hand flicks slightly, a gesture I think he doesn’t even mean to make—half a motion toward me, then stillness again.
Mikhail catches it, his grin widening. “Looks like the reunion’s already tense. Can’t wait to see dinner tonight.”
“Shut up,” Artyom says quietly, not even looking at him.
Irina laughs lightly. “Don’t be so serious. It’s only dinner. My father has… questions, that’s all.” Her gaze slides to me again, assessing, cruelly amused. “And I’m sure he’ll have a few for your fiancée too.”
Something in Artyom’s posture shifts—so small I almost don’t see it, but I do. He’s bracing for something. That realization sends a pulse of unease through me, quick and sharp. Whatever’s coming, he’s already preparing for it, already building the wall I’ll never get through. I want to ask what she means, but I don’t. I just stand there, pretending I don’t feel the weight in the air or the way my stomach twists at the thought of what kind of man could makehimtense.
Irina looks pleased with herself, like she’s the only one who knows the secret. Maybe she is. Maybe everyone in this room has read the script except me, and I’m standing here waiting for my cue.
The elevator behind us dings softly, breaking the quiet.
Irina’s smile sharpens. “Speak of the devil.”
