“The fashion show.”
Misha perked up instantly. “The one downtown?”
“Yes.”
“I am noticing that you are attending more and more of these things. Are you finally deciding to design your own collection?” Timofey teased.
“No.”
“You should,” Clara said. “You’re wasting time assisting other designers.”
“I’m not wasting time.”
“You’re hiding,” Zhenya countered.
I forced a smile. “I’m learning.”
The truth burned hotter because all of them knew I wanted my own line and my own name on a runway. But ambition and danger didn’t mix cleanly in our world, and I wasn’t sure whether I should take a step that would directly throw me into the limelight. But I didn’t have time for any of that. Not right now.
“I’ll be late,” I said, grabbing my bag, practically running out of the room as quickly as I could. Stepping out, I breathed a huge sigh of relief at the escape. As I walked onto the driveway, the air suddenly felt different. Slightly heavier than usual. The estate gates loomed ahead, security cameras glinting in the afternoon sun.
And then, it hit me. It was the same sensation from the masquerade. It felt like awareness, sharp and deliberate, as if eyes were pressing against my skin. I paused mid-step, suddenly confused. I walked farther and scanned the street beyond thegates, but saw nothing and no one. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing wrong.
But the feeling lingered, making my pulse tick faster. As I slid into my car and drove away, I couldn’t shake the sensation. Like someone was watching deliberately. But he wouldn’t come after me here, right? It was impossible. The Chernykh mansion was fortified so well that no one even lingered nearby, and he didn’t even know who I was.
I was just imagining things. I took a deep breath and made my way towards the venue.
I had a fashion show to attend.
Chapter 6 - Fyodor
I should have walked away the moment Kliment had asked me to do this. At least, that was the rational thing to do. I should have closed the file and reassigned the operation. I should have told Kliment she was unsuitable as leverage because she was too visible, too embedded, or too complicated, or any other lie to make him give up on the idea of her as bait. But I did none of those things because a part of me knew doing this was the only way I could keep her safe.
Hence, I sat in my car a block from the Chernykh estate and watched her leave. Her vehicle slid through the gates with quiet confidence, sunlight flashing across the windshield. She drove herself. There was no driver and no escort tailing too closely. It was almost intriguing to see how independent she was.
Of course she was.
I waited five seconds before starting my engine, knowing fully well this wasn’t a strategy anymore. It wasn’t an order either, but simply instinct. The collision of identities hadn’t just complicated Kliment’s plan; it had detonated it. The woman he wanted me to dismantle had already been in my bed and already trusted me with her anonymity. She already looked at me like I was more than a Romanov.
Using her as leverage wasn’t just tactical. It was impossible. But I couldn’t admit that. Not yet. Not without consequences. So I followed her smartly, making sure I wasn’t close enough for it to be obvious but not far enough to lose her either. That was the best way to go about it.
Miami traffic swallowed us both in waves of red lights and slow-moving intersections. She drove steadily, no sudden turns,no evasive maneuvers. Either she didn’t notice, or she wasn’t worried about someone being behind her. When she finally turned off the main road toward an industrial district, my brows pulled together slightly.
Where was she going?
I grew even more confused as the road began to signal warehouse fronts with minimal signage, yet security gates that were heavily guarded. I stayed behind her as her car finally slowed down before a guarded entrance. The guard leaned down, spoke briefly, and then the gates opened without question.
Interesting.
I rolled forward a minute later, not wanting to waste any time. If she was going inside, I had to go right after her.
The same guard stepped out, posture rigid. “Invitation?”
“Romanov,” I said evenly. “Fyodor Romanov.”
The man who seemed Russian by his accent suddenly seemed more alert. His eyes sharpened as recognition dawned in them. It wasn’t fear but calculation as he measured whether I was important enough to be led inside without an invitation. After a few long seconds, he stepped aside without another word. The gates opened, making me realize how power wasn’t always loud. As I drove in, I realized the warehouse was nothing like the exterior suggested.
I could see glass partitions and a stark white runway cutting through the center. I stopped my car in the small parking lot and got out, noticing the spotlights that were rigged overhead at the long runway. Guests were already filtering inside, and I immediately recognized a few faces. There were designers and investors, and critics dressed in curated minimalism.
