God, I hate this place.
Behind me, Maxim adjusts his cufflinks, and the rustle of his tailored jacket fills the silence of the suite. He moves closer, his reflection joining mine in the mirror, and I force myself not to flinch.
"Perfect," he says, looking at me.
His fingers brush the back of my neck, and my skin crawls. He traces the emerald collar, adjusting it slightly to the left, then back to center.
"You remember the rules?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod.
"Words, Elena."
"Yes," I say, clearing my throat. "I do." My voice comes out flat and lifeless.
"Good." He steps closer, his chest nearly touching my back, and I feel his breath across my bare shoulder as he take a big inhale with his eyes closed.
It’s a weird behavior of his that I've long since ignored because of how disgusting he is.
"So you will keep your eyes down. You will speak only when spoken to. You will smile when I tell you to smile,” he says.
I nod again, but he grips my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes in the mirror.
"And if you embarrass me at any time during this event," he continues, his tone never rising above that terrible calmness it has, "the punishment will be severe. Do you understand?"
The pill I swallowed an hour ago is working through my veins, softening the edges of my terror, but not erasing it. Not completely. The numbness wraps around my thoughts, but underneath, something sharp and feral scratches at the walls of my mind.
I want to scream and claw at his face until he bleeds, but I don't.
Instead, I whisper, "I understand."
"Good girl."
He releases my chin and steps back, smoothing down his jacket. He looks at me one more time, his eyes cold and dead, before he nods toward the door.
"Come," he says, and like always, I follow.
The hallway outside our suite is too fancy and filled with too much gold. Chandeliers hang overhead, and you can almost see their reflection in the marble floors.
Like with all these wealthy places, the walls are lined with oil paintings of men in powdered wigs and women in empire-waist gowns. Famous dead people, frozen in time.
I feel a lot like that last part.
Maxim's hand wraps around my elbow firmly as we descend the grand staircase together. The steps are wide, carpeted in deep crimson, and my heels sink slightly into it with each movement. I keep my eyes on the floor, watching the hem of my dress brush against my ankles.
Below, the sound of the party grows louder.
Classical music from a live band floats up to us, along with the clinking of champagne flutes. It mingles with low laughter and the murmur of a dozen different languages. Russian. French. German. English.
As we get down to the ground floor, I get a whiff of expensive cigars and perfume so thick it feels like it coats the back of my throat.
I breathe through my mouth, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself.
The grand hall is massive. The ceiling soars three stories high, painted with cherubs and clouds and golden sunlight that never existed in this place. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy silk curtains. Outside, snow falls silently over the Swiss Alps, blanketing the world in white.
Men in tailored tuxedos cluster in small groups, drinks in hand, diplomatic pins attached to their lapels. Ambassadors, politicians, billionaires, and monsters hiding in plain sight.
The women are different.