They stand beside their men like accessories. Like trophies. They wear gowns of silk and satin, their hair styled to perfection, their makeup flawless, and their ears and wrists covered in diamonds.
But their eyes are dead, every single one of them.
I recognize that look. I see it in the mirror every morning.
Maxim leads me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my elbow. People turn to look. Some smile, some nod. A few men let their gazes linger too long on the curve of my waist, my breasts, or the bare skin of my shoulders.
I look away and keep my eyes on the floor.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne, and Maxim plucks two glasses. He hands one to me, and I take it, holding it delicately by the stem. I don't drink. I can't. Not with the pill still working through my system. But he cares about appearances. If he sees me drink it, I'll be in trouble, but if I set it down, I'm in trouble too.
"Volkov!"
A man's voice, loud and jovial, cuts through the music.
Maxim turns, and I turn with him, careful to keep my body angled slightly behind his.
The man approaching is older, maybe sixty, with silver hair slicked back and a thick mustache. His suit is perfectly tailored, and a diplomatic pin glitters on his chest, the French flag.
"Ambassador Rousseau," Maxim greets, extending his hand.
They shake, and the Frenchman's eyes slide to me.
"And who is this?" he asks, in his thick accent.
"My companion," Maxim says smoothly. "Elena."
The Frenchman's gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering. He smiles, and it feels perverted.
"She is exquisite."
"Yes," Maxim agrees. His hand moves from my elbow to my hip, fingers digging into me possessively. "She is."
The man takes a sip of his champagne, still staring. "Where are you from?"
I don't answer at first.
"Elena," Maxim says firmly.
"Oh, excuse me," I say. "I'm from Romania."
"Ah. I didn't know they had such beauty there." He chuckles, a low, creepy sound as he looks down at my breasts. "You are a lucky man, Volkov."
Maxim's grip tightens on my hip.
"Very lucky," he says.
I stare at the pattern on the Frenchman's tie. Red with blue patterns. It's intricate and I focus on it as they continue talking.
The conversation continues over my head. Politics. Trade agreements. Something about exports and sanctions. I don't listen, and the words blur together, meaningless, as I focus on the tie, on the way the blue thread seems to have a hint of red coming through.
The man laughs at something Maxim says, and then he's gone, moving on to another cluster of men.
Maxim's hand stays on my hip.
We move through the hall, stopping occasionally for similar interactions. A German industrialist. A British lord. A fellow Russian oligarch. They all look at me the same way. Like I'm something to be appraised.
I just continue to dissociate. I let my mind drift, floating above my body, watching from a distance. The girl alongside him isn't me. She's someone else. A stranger.