Because he’s back. Because he’s dancing at a club twenty minutes from campus. Because every time I close my eyes, I see him on that stage, golden and untouchable and nothing like the boy I once knew.
“Just curious if Father ever told you anything about their conversation that night. The night when Vincent left.”
“Father never mentioned any specific conversation to me.” She sets her glass down.
Natalie was already at Columbia when Lea, Vincent’s mom, and Vincent moved in with us, so she wasn’t around for most of their time in our house. But I was hoping Father had shared some details with her that he didn’t share with me.
“But later? After he left? Father never said anything about why Vincent ran away?”
“Only that it was Vincent’s choice.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Why are you so interested now? Did something happen?”
“No.” I stab another piece of egg. “Just wondering.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Natalie doesn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because we both know that’s bullshit.”
The concern in her voice catches me off guard. Natalie and I are close, but we don’t do heart-to-hearts. We don’t pryinto each other’s personal lives beyond surface-level discussions about classes or work or the occasional dating disaster.
“Just some trouble with a friend. Nothing important.”
“A friend.” Her tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me for a second. Then she sighs, dropping her napkin onto the table beside her half-eaten avocado toast. “You know, when I was your age, Father sat me down and told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said, ‘Natalia, you are an Orlov. We don’t sulk about problems. We solve them.’” She gestures at my massacred eggs. “So whatever—or whoever—this is about, stop pushing food around your plate and do something about it.”
My mind flashes to last night at the Siren. To Vincent’s cold eyes as he confronted me. When he wouldn’t give me what I wanted, I just walked away. All this time, I’ve been demanding answers from him, expecting him to cave simply because I asked. But Vincent isn’t a problem I can solve through force or intimidation. He’s made that clear every time I’ve tried.
“You’re right,” I say slowly, an idea taking shape. “I need a different approach.”
Natalie’s lips curve into a smile. “Of course I’m right. I’m the smart Orlov.”
I snort, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. “I thought Father was the smart Orlov.”
“Father is the scary Orlov. I’m the smart one. You’re the pretty one.” She reaches across the table to tap my cheek. “Use that pretty face for something other than scowling, yeah?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. For the first time in weeks, I feel something like clarity. I’ve been going about this all wrong. Vincent doesn’t respond to demands or threats—he never has. Even when we were teenagers, he’d shut down if pushed too hard.
But there are other ways to get what I want.
“Thanks, Nat,” I say, meaning it.
She waves a dismissive hand. “For reminding you that you’re an Orlov? Please. It’s practically my job at this point. Now, can we please talk about something other than your mysterious ‘friend’ problem?”
I nod, finally taking a real bite of my cold breakfast. The food tastes better now, or maybe I’m just finally hungry. As Natalie launches back into her story about Mikhail and the east side property, I find myself actually listening. Part of me, anyway. The rest is busy formulating a new plan.
Vincent won’t tell me why he left. Fine. I’ll find another way to get the truth. I’ll have my answers. Not through confrontation, but through subterfuge.
I’m good at games. And if Vincent wants to play hard to get, I can play harder.
Because Natalie is right about one thing: I am an Orlov. And when I want something, I don’t stop until I get it.
7
Vincent
AFTER A FEW NIGHTS of absence, Alex is here again. This time he’s with an entourage of preppy college boys in tow.
I transition into a spin, letting momentum carry me around the pole while buying time to process this new development. He’s brought friends. Rich ones, judging by the casual way they toss bills toward the stage without checking denominations. Alex has taken them to a VIP table—the best one, right at the edge of the stage—looking like he owns the place.
My jaw clenches as I drop into a floor sequence, body rolling with the beat while my mind races a mile ahead. What’s his angle this time? Showing up with his buddies like this is a new tactic, and I don’t like not knowing the game.
The song transitions into something faster, the tempo matching my quickening pulse. I push off the floor, launching into a series of spins that bring me to the edge of the stage—right in front of Alex’s table. It’s a mistake. I know it themoment our eyes lock.
