I link my hand with his arm. Then stop. “Wait. I need that.” I pick up the bag with the flats.
He looks at it. “What’s that?”
“Flats. The heels won’t last all night.”
“Makes sense.” He takes the bag from me. “Let’s go.”
He guides me to the elevator.
We arrive at the venue - an old hotel in central Moscow. Light pours from the tall windows. Intricate woodwork and velvet tapestries line the foyer. Well-dressed people file through the entrance, Russia’s criminal class in expensive suits and gowns. Alexei keeps his hand on my lower back as we get out, firm, steering me forward. We climb the steps side by side.
The ballroom spreads out in front of us. Tall ceilings and chandeliers hanging like frozen waterfalls fill the space. Tables are set with precision. Well-dressed people are on every corner, and Alexei steers me forward with a firm hand on my back. We walk through groups of guests. That’s when I spot them - my mother in a navy dress and my father in a dark suit. She looks smaller somehow as they talk with someone.
My mother sees me first. Her face lights up as she excuses herself from the conversation and walks toward us, my father following.
“Zoya.” My mother’s voice is warm. She pulls me into a tight hug. “My darling girl. Look at you.”
I hug her back while my eyes sting. “Hi, Mama.”
My father embraces me next, stiff and awkward. “You look beautiful, ?????.” I still recognize the heavy pull of his Ukrainian accent.
Alexei reaches out. My father shakes his hand. It appears pleasant, but it isn’t. “Artem. I appreciate you being here.”
“We wouldn’t miss it.” My father tries to smile, but it looks forced. “We’re so happy for you.”
“You are?” The sarcasm slips out.
My mother looks at me sharply. “We are. Truly.” She threads her arm through mine and turns to him. “Alexei, do you mind? Just a quick mother-daughter moment.”
“Go ahead.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “Stay close.”
My mother guides me away as we move through clusters of guests. She finds a less crowded area near the windows and takes two champagne glasses from a passing waiter, giving one to me. “Drink this. You need it.”
I take a sip of the good champagne, though it doesn’t help.
“Well.” She looks at me carefully. “How are you actually doing?”
“How would I be?”
“I think you’re in the right place,” she says, speaking gently but clearly. “You’re upset. You feel we deceived you. But this situation…”
“Was arranged long ago. I understand,” I say, finishing half the glass. “Alexei said it all. I belonged to the Romanovs since fifteen. The German story was fake.”
“Yes.”
“You knew the entire time?”
A pause follows before she answers. “Yes.”
That hurts. More than it should. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
“Because you’d have left. You left anyway.” She brushes my cheek with her fingers. “I know you. Headstrong. Independent. Always fighting for control.” Her expression softens. “If I told you the truth, you’d vanish. That’s what you did.”
“So lying was easier.”
“I gave you time. As much as I could.” Her eyes drift to where Alexei stands across the room as men cluster around him.
“That time is finished. You’re here now, and you belong to him.” She faced me without a hint of softness in her expression. “Stop acting like a child.”
