I picked up my fork again and pushed the borscht bowl an inch closer to her. "How's it taste?"
"Good," she took a sip, looked up. "But sweeter than I expected."
"Next time I'll have the chef add half a spoon of lemon juice. Balances the acid."
She looked at me with those blue eyes for a moment, then ducked her head and quietly scribbled something in her notebook.
I raised my glass, hiding the smile at my lips.
When she finally set down her napkin with satisfaction, I put down my knife and fork, dropped the relaxed air, and resumed the Pakhan's coldness.
"In three days," I began, "there's a charity gala. Fundraiser for Washington Children's Hospital. Attendees include local business and political figures, plus core members from several families. At that event, I'll formally introduce you."
Vivienne's hand froze.
"Before then," I continued, "you need to master several things. First, etiquette. How to hold a glass, seating order, greeting people of different ranks, positioning and guidance. Second, dancing. There'll be an opening ballroom dance. You need to handle basic waltz and Viennese waltz steps. Third, background intel. Every power player there, major figures, networks, taboos, sensitive points in family histories—you need to remember all of it."
I paused, waiting for her to complain or negotiate.
She set down her napkin with sharp efficiency, looked up, expression unexpectedly calm.
"No problem, boss." She said, then reached for her notebook, flipped to a fresh page, uncapped her pen. "Where do we start? Etiquette or intel?"
She sat motionless under the crystal chandelier, face tight with determination, ready to pounce—paired with a largesmear of dark red venison sauce at the corner of her mouth from eating too fast. The combination looked ridiculous yet damnably charming.
I couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips.
I'll admit, I'd prepared a softening strategy. If she complained, I'd cut the requirements in half, keep only what was truly necessary. I'd deliberately built in flexibility, giving her an out while testing her response under pressure.
But she skipped that entire phase, pulled out her notebook, and asked where to start.
"Tomorrow morning at eight, the etiquette instructor arrives," I said. "Afternoon is dance lessons. Sasha will deliver the intel packet to your room tonight. Read through it first, questions tomorrow at dinner."
"Okay," she wrote without looking up. "Who's teaching dance?"
"A retired diplomatic protocol officer. Last name Patrick. Specializes in these intensive crash courses."
"Sounds terrifying." Her mouth twitched, still writing. "The etiquette teacher?"
"Worse."
Her pen stopped. She looked up with that familiar expression I'd first seen on the plane—the one that tried to see straight through you, full of challenge.
"You're trying to scare me."
"I'm giving you the facts," I said. "That's how they work. You'll get used to it."
"Or," she looked back down, kept writing, "I'll make you regret hiring them."
I didn't respond.
But I noticed the sauce at her mouth corner was still there. The entire conversation, she hadn't noticed.
I stood.
She looked up, confused. Before she could react, I was beside her.
I reached out, thumb brushing her lip. The touch was warm, slightly sweet from the food. Her skin turned scorching instantly.
