"I haven’t. But I was lucky enough to walk in here with my eyes wide open." The corner of her mouth lifts, the first real warmth I've seen from her. "Hey. Look at me. You're okay."
"I can't do this.” I’m not made like Katriona or the other women here. All I’m cut out for is cozy nights in front of the fire reading Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time and making sure Cole actually turns up for the meetings he is meant to chair. “I thought I could, but I can't. They're all, they're so..."
"Terrifying? Absolutely. That one with the jaw could cut glass with his cheekbones alone. But you know what? He puts his trousers on one leg at a time, same as anyone. Probably has someone iron them first, but the principle holds."
I let out another wet, shaking laugh.
"Listen to me," she continues with a steadiness and a warmth that has edges of iron underneath. "If we're going to be sold to terrifying billionaires tonight, at least let's do it with waterproof mascara. Here. Tilt your head back."
She pulls a tissue from her clutch and dabs under my eyes gently.
"There. You're gorgeous. Now. We're going to walk back into that room, and we're going to hold our heads up, and we're going to remember that those men need us more than we need them, because without wives, they're just men with guns and property portfolios, and that's not a dynasty. That's a bachelor party that never ended."
I laugh again, stronger this time. "You're funny."
"I'm hysterical. It's my primary coping mechanism. Shall we?"
I take her hand, and I let her pull me to my feet, and for a moment we just stand there, two strangers bound together by whatever this is.
Then I square my shoulders, because Katriona's right. Whatever Cole has done, whatever this room full of dangerous, well-dressed men are here to buy, I refuse to walk in looking like prey.
I walk the cloakroom door, and the music drifts louder from the reception hall. I walk toward it with my chin level and my pulse still hammering.
Volody
Pietty's house smells the same every time. Candle wax, old money, and just enough desperation to make the air taste metallic if you breathe through your mouth too long.
Rovin's already three steps ahead of us, shoulders set like a man walking into a board meeting instead of a room full of women in evening gowns. Akyl's beside him, looking like someone told him the open bar got cancelled. Dayan trails behind both of them with his hands in his pockets, silent as a held breath, and Serik's somewhere close, doing whatever Serik does at these things, which mostly involves listening to things nobody meant for him to hear.
I come in last, because somebody has to enjoy himself, and apparently that job is permanently mine.
Rita's waiting at the door with her stack of folders and her professional little smile, the one she's worn at every single one of these dinners since Pietty started hosting them. She holds one out to me like she does every time, hope still alive somewhere behind her eyes.
"Mr. Mostovoi. Portfolio?"
"Rita." I press a hand to my chest like she's wounded me. "We've talked about this. I don't read. I observe."
"No harm in trying something new," she says, tongue in cheek. "I’ve heard all kinds of rumors about the Mostovoi’s many talents."
"Talents,” I repeat, tasting the word. “Well, I definitely have plenty of those." I wink at her, and she rolls her eyes in a playful way. "Keep the folder. I'll find out everything I need the old-fashioned way."
"And what's the old-fashioned way?" she asks.
I lean into her space and purposely wait long enough to smell her perfume before saying, "Talking to them,” right against her ear. Satisfaction ripples through me when I see goosebumps erupt over her neck. I pull back. “A wild concept, I know."
She swallows before she gathers herself enough to wave me off toward the reception room with the weary affection of someone who's given up trying to manage me, which, frankly, is the correct response.
The house is exactly as it always is. Heavy drapes pulled against the drizzle outside, a fire going in the stone fireplace that's working a little too hard to make commerce look like romance, candlelight doing its level best to flatter nervous, beautiful, terrified women into looking like they wandered in off the cover of a magazine instead of into the lion’s den. Crystal everywhere. The whole production dressed up like a party when everyone in it knows exactly what it actually is.
I love it here. I genuinely do, and I think that fact alone disturbs my brothers more than anything else about me.
Two women catch my eye before I've made it ten feet into the room, one blonde, one in deep blue, both of them laughing at something before I've even said anything funny, which tells you everything you need to know about how these nights work. I give them my full attention because that's the only kind of attentionworth giving to any woman, ask the blonde about the necklace she's wearing until she tells me the whole story behind it, ask the one in blue what she'd be doing tonight if she weren't here, and get an actual answer instead of a rehearsed one. That's the thing nobody tells you about a room like this. Most people want to talk about themselves. You just have to be the one person in the building who looks like he's actually listening.
By the time we cross into the dining hall, I've got one on each arm and Akyl's giving me a look from across the room that I've seen on his face since we were children, the one that saysyou're embarrassing the family name,except he's smiling around the edges of it, because even Akyl can't completely fight the urge to laugh at me.
"You're terrible," the blonde says, delighted, as I steer them both toward the table.
"I preferefficient."
