Four years is a long time. Men like Roman do not spend years haunted by one woman. Men like Roman have lives, power, enemies, women, whatever else men like Roman collect and destroy. I’m the only one standing here feeling as if I’ve just seen a ghost.
Papa recovers first.
“Mr. Sokolov,” he says, with that measured warmth he uses for powerful men he has not yet decided whether to trust. “You made it.”
Roman inclines his head. “Sergei.”
My father smiles, but he’s already studying him more closely. I can see it. Papa always recognizes power quickly. It’s one of the few instincts in him that has never once failed.
And then Vika moves in.
She has been waiting for a man like this all evening. She’s in one of her sleek black dresses, the kind she wears when she wants the entire room to understand that she’s desirable and knows it. Hair perfect. Mouth painted deep red. Shoulders bare. She looks expensive, hungry, and completely at ease.
“Roman,” she says, as if she has every right to use his first name.
He turns to her.
Only then do I realize they know each other.
Not deeply, maybe. But enough that she doesn’t hesitate, enough that he doesn’t ask who she is. That realization slides into me like something cold.
So, she has met him before.
How? When? And why does that bother me this much?
I look down at myself before I can stop it.
My dress is dark blue, high at the neck, simple except for the fit. It had felt elegant enough when I put it on. Appropriate. I was dressing for my father’s crowd, not for seduction. I was dressing to protect, not to be seen.
Standing beside Vika now, I feel plain.
I hate myself a little for noticing.
Then I hate the room for making me notice.
When I look up again, Roman is already watching me. Not the polite glance from a stranger, and not the cool courtesy from a man pretending not to know me.
Vika recovers first.
By the time I’ve managed to steady my breathing, she’s already smiling up at Roman as if almost falling into his arms was the most amusing little accident of the evening and not something that has left my pulse pounding in my throat.
“You do make an entrance,” she says.
Roman’s expression barely shifts. “I came through the front door.”
Vika laughs as though he has said something clever and charming instead of flatly obvious. My father watches the exchange with far too much interest for my liking, his hand resting on the back of Nikolai’s chair, his gaze moving from Roman to Vika and then, once, very briefly, to me.
That look tells me enough.
They expected Roman. Maybe not me stumbling into him, maybe not the children, maybe not this exact moment, but Roman was part of whatever tonight is. Vika knew he would be here. Papa knew Vika knew. The understanding passes between them so fast anyone else would miss it.
I don’t.
And suddenly I feel ridiculous standing there in dark blue silk chosen for decency and distance while Vika glows in black like she dressed for him.
I hate the thought the moment it arrives.
I hate her more for making me have it.
