I need air. Or alcohol. Preferably both. I break away, swiping a drink from a passing tray. The waitress is young and barely dressed with a smile so practiced I feel like I can see myself in her. My stomach turns. Another human likely owned by powerful men.
The base of a massive marble spiral staircase offers some kind of quiet, thank fuck. I retreat there, leaning against the cool stone, breathing through my nose.
“Hey,” Adriana says behind me. “You can’t disappear like that.” She steps closer.
I sigh heavily.
“Lighten up,” she adds. “Those guys are…creepy.” She reaches for me, fingers straightening and tugging at my tie. My body reacts before my brain can stop it. Not happiness or desire, exactly. Just memory. Conditioning.
I hate it.
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too sharply.
Her brows lift. “You don’t look fine.”
She moves closer anyway, hips nearly touching mine. I suddenly regret stepping somewhere private. Nolan’s words echo, entirely fucking uninvited.
Whenever she wants.
My grip tightens on the glass. “I said I’m fine,” I repeat.
Her eyes search my face for a long moment. Then she scoffs, stepping back half an inch. “Unbelievable,” she mutters. “I’m not in the mood for you to piss me off. No fighting tonight, please. Nolan wouldn't stop touching me on the way here, and I'd rather not deal with him after this party.”
I don’t answer.
Above us, the music swells, laughter bursting out of some loud old hag. Somewhere in this building, deals are being made that will ruin lives and kill people. And I’m standing at the bottom of a staircase, dressed like a version of myself I don’t recognize, realizing exactly how horrifying my world has become.
I finally down the drink, my gaze not leaving the wretched women before me. Someone who is a venomous snake beneath her beauty and perfume. She doesn’t give me time to think before her hand slides into mine, pulling me back towards the crowd. The music is louder here, bass thudding through the marble. It seems the quartet is no longer playing, now replaced by speakers. People are closer now, their bodies grinding together in a sensual manner.
She grabs two more drinks from a passing tray, hands one to me without asking, already halfway through hers. “Drink,” she says.
So I do. And then I do it again. And again.
Fuck it.
That seems to be my new life motto.
If events filled with crystals and silk are my new cage, I may as well stop trying to gnaw at the bars. The oxy and alcohol are warm in my bloodstream, smoothing everything out that would usually annoy me. My thoughts start to smear together, reality losing its grip just enough to calm down a little.
Even more people are dancing now. It’s not wild or reckless like you’d see at concerts. It’s more of a controlled indulgence with swaying bodies and stuck-up laughter. Adriana presses closer, her body fitting against mine like it always belonged there. And, in a way, it does. She’s been the constant in my life for the past almost eight fucking years.
Her arms loop around my neck. My gaze drifts and locks with Nolan’s a few feet away. He takes a sip of his drink, staring at melike he’s making sure I remember what I’m for. I close my eyes for half a second and sigh. Then I do my job.
My hands settle at Adriana’s waist. She smiles victoriously and moves with me as the music swells. I stop thinking and shove it all down until there’s nothing left but the beat and the heat and the numbness. This is easier...existing without meaning.
She tilts her head up, lips brushing my jaw at first. She’s testing me, waiting for resistance.
It doesn’t come. So when she kisses me, I don’t pull away. I kiss her back. The room spins just slightly. The music grows louder. Wealthy criminals laugh, talk, and drink around us. Her mouth is warm and familiar enough. And somewhere deep down, a voice whispers that I deserve more. That I’m worthy of better things. Of...her.The artist in Seaside.
But I don’t listen. I let myself disappear, because it's the best way to protect her.
Moscow blurs past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow on the quiet drive back to the hotel. Nolan sits in the front seat, relaxed, one arm draped over the door. Adriana and I are in the back. She’s leaned into my side, warm and loose with alcohol, her head tipping against my shoulder as the car glides forward. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my thigh.
I stare straight ahead.
She hums softly, amused with herself, and shifts closer. Her hand slides higher. I don’t stop her. I don’t encourage it either. I’m too tired to choose.
Nolan glances at us in the rearview mirror and laughs. Actually laughs. “See?” he says, pleased. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
