Page 6 of Baby for My Ex's Brother

“Him, too.”

She nods, not pressing, and I find I don’t mind that she doesn’t press. Most people want more than I’m offering. Luna Ambrose seems to understand discretion better than most.

Across the room, Hugo excuses himself from his new father-in-law and takes his wife’s hand with the studied ease of a man who’s performing contentment for an audience.

Olga Witte—Olga Dumas, now, though the name will take getting used to—smiles up at him with the unclouded warmth of someone who does not yet know she should be asking questions.

She’s very young. But that’s not her fault.

It’s her father’s. Pyotr Witte is a traditional man. He kept her in all-girls schools throughout her life, sheltering her from the realities of the world. I suppose I understand the urge, but now, she’s tied to Hugo. A fate I would not wish upon anyone.

Hugo doesn’t look at us directly. He hasn’t once, not since that first moment at the door. He’s good at this—acting like he doesn’t care—but I know him well enough to read the tension in his shoulders and the way he holds his glass a fraction too tightly.

He wanted to marry into Pyotr Witte’s weapons empire. He wanted the alliance, the elevation, the proof that he could build something I couldn’t take from him. And he has all of it, technically. The marriage happened. The alliance exists.Technically.

Pyotr is not the kind of man who gives something for nothing, and certainly not his daughter. It makes me wonder what Hugo promised him in exchange. Pyotr has long wanted to do business with me.

The next few weeks will be enlightening.

Luna says something to the woman beside her at the bar—a guest I don’t recognize—and within sixty seconds they’rediscussing something that makes them both laugh, heads tilted toward each other like they’ve known each other for years.

Why Hugo thought so little of her, I will never understand.

I’m not built for rooms like this. I’m built for the work that happens before and after rooms like this—the calls, the pressure, the mathematics of loyalty and consequence. I’m here tonight because my absence would have been its own message, and I’ve spent years ensuring that every message I send is intentional.

The orchestra moves into something slower. Around us, the room softens and rearranges, couples drifting toward the floor. I glance over at Luna. She’s turned back from her new acquaintance, and she meets my eyes with the directness that I’m beginning to understand is simply how she looks at things.

The slower song would mean a different proximity. A different kind of conversation. I would have the chance to pin down what flower she smells like.

And if I share a slow, intimate dance with Luna in front of all these important people, Hugo will have a fit.

3

LUNA

Hugo’snear the cake now, standing with Olga, a photographer, and two people who are probably her parents. Hugo has his hand on Olga’s waist and is smiling for the camera.

It’s his fake smile. I know it anywhere.

The photographer’s flash goes off. Hugo blinks, and in the half-second before he reassembles the smile, I see the falter. The glance in our direction. The readjustment he thinks no one else notices. The return of that dental billboard smile.

The orchestra shifts to something slower, and Ivan puts down his glass.

He offers his hand, and I look at it for a moment—this large, scarred, tattooed hand that has been at the small of my back all evening like it belongs there—and take it.

The floor is fuller now, couples moving in close, the lights dimmed another degree from wherever they were before. He draws me in, and I go, one hand in his, the other at his shoulder, and we are—closer than the fast song, close enough I can feel thewarmth coming off him through his shirt and smell the leather of him that I’ve been failing to not notice since the coat closet.

He moves controlled. Everything about him is controlled, which makes me wonder what he’s like when he loses control.

Strangely, Hugo has become the last thing on my mind. I was here for revenge against him, but he’s on the periphery at most.

Let him watch. Let him try to work out what this is, what I’m to his stepbrother, and why I’m here in a dress that cost too much, slow-dancing with his stepbrother like I was always going to end up here.

Honestly, I’d like to know the answer to that last one myself. Ivan, for all his rough edges, is a magnet. I like being next to him. Or better yet, in his arms.

“You’re not thinking about him anymore,” Ivan says, his arm around my waist.

“I’m allowed to take a break from my revenge.”