I want to enjoy it more than I do. But seeing him standing there in his tuxedo, beautiful and careless, beside the woman who helped him humiliate me, brings back the worst of it.
My fingers tighten around Yaromir’s sleeve.
He feels it. Of course he does.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back, firm and grounding. “Breathe,” he says quietly.
“I am breathing.”
He gives me a look.
I turn my head toward him. “Is this your way of helping?”
“Yes.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s working. You’re arguing.”
I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat.
Dmitri is still staring. His gaze moves over me slowly now, taking in the red dress, the diamonds, the coat slipping slightly off my shoulders, Yaromir’s hand on me.
Then his eyes drop to the ring. Yaromir’s ring.
Something hard moves across Dmitri’s face.
Not love. Not regret.
Jealousy.
Yaromir leans closer. “Look at me.”
I do.
His face is calm, but his eyes are not. They’re fixed on me with that dark, steady attention that makes me feel seen in a way I’m not ready for.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks.
The question surprises me.
I glance back at Dmitri and Katya. Katya has lowered her eyes. Dmitri has not.
“No,” I say.
Yaromir’s mouth barely curves. “Good.”
This time, I don’t tell him to stop saying that.
The music changes. A slower piece begins, the kind of polished, elegant waltz people dance to when they want the room to admire how civilized they are.
Yaromir takes my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing with my wife.”
I stiffen. “Now?”