I don't crumble the note. I leave it there, a battle plan for the evening.
The day passes in a blur.
The staff moves around me, stepping out of my way when I walk through the penthouse. They address me as ‘Mrs. Morozov,’ with hushed reverence.
By 7:00 PM, the sun sets. The city outside plunges into glittering darkness.
I sit at the vanity in the dressing room, staring at my reflection. The makeup artist Konstantin sent just left. My lips are painted a dark red and my eyes are lined with kohl, making them look predatory.
The dress is hanging on the door. It’s midnight blue velvet, with long sleeves, a high neck that covers the bruises on my throat, and a back that plunges dangerously low.
I stand, let the robe fall, and step into the velvet.
The fabric is heavy, dragging against the floor. It hugs my waist and hips, creating a silhouette of absolute control.
I fasten the emerald necklace my husband provided and look in the mirror one last time.
The woman staring back isn't the terrified girl dragged out of her home.
She’s a stranger.
I touch the cold glass of the mirror, tracing the reflection of my own eyes.
They look deadlier.
“Are you still in there, Helena?” I ask the reflection in barely a whisper.
No answer. Just the glitter of the emeralds and the dark lips that Konstantin claimed.
I’m terrified of this woman, but she’s the only one strong enough to survive the night.
The tremble in her hands is gone. Her shoulders are set. She looks like a woman who sleeps with the devil and wakes up deciding she likes the heat.
I turn off the light and walk out.
My husband is waiting in the living area.
He’s standing by the fireplace, one hand in his pocket. He’s wearing a black tuxedo, looking immaculate.
He turns at the tap of my heels on the marble.
His eyes scan me thoroughly. He lingers on the high neck of the dress, knowing exactly what marks lie beneath it, then traces the dip of my waist.
The glint in his eyes is familiar. It’s the same hunger that burned me last night, but now it’s contained.
"Perfect," he murmurs.
He walks over to me, stopping inches away. He doesn't touch me, but the gravity between us pulls at my skin.
"You remember the stakes?" he asks, his voice low.
"I remember," I say. "The Council. The dinner. The Venezuelan shipment."
"It’s not just a dinner," he warns. "It’s an inquisition."
He sips his drink.
"Sokolov is bringing three others. The old guard. They know about your father. That he’s with the Italians. And they believe you’re a spy, a liability I picked up out of lust. You have to be prepared because they’ll come at you. Try to break you."
