His gaze flicks to my hands and lingers, noticing everything. “You see?” he says to Nolan, clapping him once on the shoulder. “Talent like this opens doors. Makes peoplegenerous. We have a lot of good energy tonight. Deals left and right. It's good. Little rockstar is great.”
Nolan laughs too loudly. “Yeah. He’s…uh. He’s incredible.”
I level a glare at him, but he ignores it.
Alexei turns back to me. “Tomorrow,” he says casually, “you get your mask back.”
My stomach drops.
“I have work for you.” He shifts slightly and nods toward a man across the room—mid-forties, expensive suit, flushed from drink. He’s laughing, arm around a much younger woman who looks like she wants to escape.
“Doesn’t look so bad,” I mutter, watching how the man grips his date’s ass. “Other than being a creep, I suppose.”
“That man is careless,” Alexei huffs. “He steals. Lies. He thinks that because we smile at him and put up with his input, he is untouchable. He’s talking to people he shouldn’t be and leaning towards alliances that threaten what I’ve built.”
My jaw tightens.
“You will fix this.”
I feel an instinctual recoil, but it lasts less than a second.I kill it.Because I know what happens if I don’t. I meet Alexei’s eyes and nod once. “Okay.”
His smile widens, satisfied. “Good. I’ll message you,” he continues casually. “Where to be. What time.”
I nod once more, respectful and obedient. Adriana doesn’t look at me, and Nolan, the bastard, looks slightly pale. The music swells again, and the party continues. And I stand there, newly assigned, knowing exactly what tomorrow will cost me—and exactly how much more of myself I’ll have to give up to survive it.
Alexei is still talking, but his voice dulls to static as the image of a beautiful girl burns behind my eyes. My fingers curl at my sides, and I crush it down immediately.
I can’t afford this. Not now. Not ever again.
“Do you understand, boy?” he asks, his Russian accent thick.
I lift my gaze back to him, empty, calm, exactly what he wants. “I understand,” I say.
And I do. Unfortunately.
The silence that follows when I park the car is deafening, even in Moscow. I stare at the elevator that leads us to our suite. Adriana gets out first, smoothing her dress as she moves ahead of me. I stay seated for a second longer, hands resting on the steering wheel. My jaw aches from clenching it all night.
“I’m going to make a drink,” she says when I walk into the kitchen. “Would you like one?”
I consider, and then nod, pulling my phone out of my pocket without really thinking. And as soon as I open Instagram, I freeze. My heart races, and my body tenses as if waiting for a baton to strike me as I stare at my phone with dread.
It’s a photographer I follow who often attends events in NYC. And standing right there...isher. With Heather. And Micah. At the fucking Met Gala.
My vision tunnels. My pulse slams so hard it makes me dizzy.
No.
No, no, no.
They’re there.
She’sthere.
My thumb trembles as I scroll. Another photo. Then another. She’s in a black dress, her hair swept back, eyes bright under the lights. That—that beautiful fucking woman. And Heather is grinning like she loves the attention. Micah’s between them, with his arms around them both.
My stomach drops out completely.
Fuck.