The conversations blurred together. Pleasantries and politics and thinly veiled questions about my father's health, about succession, about whether I'd consider marriage to this daughter or that niece. Everyone wanting something. Everyone performing.
I felt Viktor's presence at my back like an anchor. Like the only real thing in a room full of beautiful lies.
“You're doing well,” he murmured during a brief lull, voice low enough that only I could hear.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“Every person here wants something from me.”
“Not every person.” His hand brushed my lower back. Brief. Gone before anyone could see. But I felt it like a brand. “I only want you to survive the night.”
The orchestra finished tuning. The crowd began to shift, moving toward the main hall where the performance would take place. But the foyer remained full, people clustering around the bars, the hors d'oeuvres, each other.
A bell chimed. Soft. Insistent. Ten minutes to curtain.
“Your Highness.” Marcel reappeared with two more people I didn't recognize. A man in his fifties with the bearing of military. A woman younger than me in silver that looked like liquid mercury. “I wanted to introduce you to Colonel Hartford and Miss Reeves. They've been instrumental in coordinating the evening's security.”
I shook hands. Made appropriate noises. Watched Viktor's shoulders tighten incrementally at the word 'security.'
“Your Mr. Volkov has been quite thorough,” Colonel Hartford said, and it didn't sound like a compliment. “Very thorough indeed. Had my men double-check their protocols three times.”
“Thoroughness keeps people alive,” Viktor said.
“Indeed.” The Colonel's smile didn't reach his eyes. “Though some might call it paranoia.”
“Only people who have never been shot at.”
Miss Reeves laughed, bright and artificial. “Well, we certainly hope no one gets shot at tonight. That would rather ruin the performance.”
The crowd laughed with her. Polite. Performative. Like violence was something that happened elsewhere, to other people, and certainly not here in this temple to beauty and culture.
I caught Viktor's eye. Saw the calculation there. The way he was already mapping which of these smiling people could be threats. Which ones had access. Which ones stood too close or asked too many questions.
He didn't trust any of them.
Neither did I.
The bell chimed again. Five minutes.
“We should take our seats,” Marcel said, gesturing toward the stairs that led to the boxes. “Sebastian, you're in the royal box, of course. I'll be just below you if you need anything.”
The crowd began to move, a river of silk and velvet and diamonds flowing toward the theater. I let myself be carried along, Viktor at my back, his presence the only thing keeping me grounded in the sea of faces and voices.
The royal box was exactly what I expected. Front and center, elevated above the main floor, with perfect sightlines to the stage and the audience both. A gilded cage with velvet cushions and a view everyone could see. We might as well have painted a target on the wall.
Viktor was thinking the same thing. I saw it in the way his eyes tracked the architecture, the angles, the sight lines. Every window a potential sniper position. Every shadow a place to hide.
“Relax,” I murmured as I settled into my seat. “You're going to give yourself a stroke.”
“I will relax when we are back at the palace. With reinforced walls. And no windows.”
“So never.”
“Da. Never.”
Below us, the theater filled. Men in black tie escorting women in jewels. The rustle of programs. The murmur of conversation that sounded like waves. I watched them settle into their seats, watched the lights begin to dim, watched the orchestra emerge from the pit.
