Sergei.
He’s heading toward another door across the terrace, his posture rigid, his eyes sweeping the crowd in that sharp, calculating way he always seems to observe everything.
I frown slightly.
He moves quickly and slips through the door without stopping.
My gaze lingers there.
What is he doing?
Maybe I’m reading too much into it.
I turn back to the bar, swirling the lime wedge in my glass, but my eyes keep drifting back to that same door.
Minutes pass.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Then twenty.
By the time half an hour passes, I’m starting to feel ridiculous for even noticing.
Paranoid.
Just as I’m convincing myself of that, the door opens.
Someone steps out.
Anya.
She’s wearing a breathtaking dress, sleek and dramatic, the kind that draws attention the moment someone walks into a room. She pauses briefly, scanning the crowd before slipping easily into it.
Within seconds, she’s smiling, laughing, blending seamlessly with the gathering as if she’s been there the entire time.
I blink.
A few minutes later, the door opens again.
Sergei walks out.
He doesn’t look around this time. He heads straight toward the bar.
My attention snaps back to the bartender immediately. I lift my glass, pretending to sip even though I barely taste the drink.
My thoughts race.
What am I thinking?
Seeing Sergei and Anya coming from the same room doesn’t mean anything.
Does it?
Anya used to be close to Mike. Sergei works closely with Mike too.
They’re probably friends.
