SIENNA
I lookat Viktor and something in me goes cold.
He isn’t just worried about the girl.
That would make sense. Anyone would be worried. A woman just collapsed at breakfast and got carried into the house foaming at the mouth. But this is different. There’s something more focused in his face, something harder underneath the concern, as if his mind has already moved past panic and landed somewhere darker.
And then I know why.
Because I remember.
Not all at once. Just a small, clear sequence, like someone turning a lens.
A server comes around with champagne after Camille’s toast. I’m standing near the side station, answering a question about coffee service. The tray passes Viktor first. He looks at it, then shakes his head once. Doesn’t take a glass.
The server moves on.
A second later, one of Camille’s bridesmaids laughs and reaches for one instead.
The same girl. I saw it. I’m suddenly sure of it in a way that makes my stomach twist.
It was meant for Viktor.
The thought hits me so hard I almost reject it on instinct.
No. That’s insane. It doesn’t mean that. It could still be random. A mistake. The wrong tray, the wrong glass, the wrong moment. It doesn’t have to mean someone is trying to poison Viktor Sokolov in the middle of a wedding breakfast in front of half the guest list.
Except the look on his face says he’s thinking something close to the same thing.
My pulse starts to climb again. Who would do that?
Why here? Why now?
And who exactly is Viktor, really?
I thought I knew what he was when I met him on the plane. Rich. Older. Dangerous in a way that made my body respond before my brain could catch up. I knew that much the first time he looked at me properly. I knew it when he touched me. I knew it when I saw the tattoos on him later, dark ink over hard muscle, half-hidden under expensive clothes and older scars. I knew he was not just some businessman with a nice watch and a commanding voice.
But I still have no idea what he really is. Not in a way that explains this.
The ambulance doors slam outside. The sound pulls me back.
Staff and guests crowd the terrace and front drive in loose, frightened knots as the girl is carried out. Her skin looks waxy now. Too still. Maksim climbs in after her, one hand already reaching for something beside the stretcher. The paramedics shut the doors, and a moment later the ambulance pulls away from the estate, lights flashing over the gravel and clipped hedges and white flowers as it goes.
Camille is crying.
But even from here I can tell it isn’t grief. It’s panic. Her mascara is still perfect. Her dress is still perfect. Her hands flutter uselessly at Ethan’s sleeve while she keeps saying, “This can’t be happening today. This cannot be happening today.”
Notis she going to be all right.
Notwhat happened to her.
Ethan has both hands on her shoulders, trying to look steady, trying to look in control, but I can hear the strain in his voice even from a few feet away.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Father will make sure the police stay away and nobody asks too many questions.”
I stare at him. The words slide under my skin in a way that has nothing to do with this morning and everything to do with the man standing a few steps from me.
Father will make sure the police stay away.
