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“Klim, thank you for coming.”
He pulls me in, and I air kiss both cheeks, just like Cyrille taught me.
His eyes slide down my body. It’s not salacious, though. More like he’s trying to size me up. Like he knows what’s strapped to my leg, actually.
“I wouldn’t miss your big debut for the world, my dear.”
“What do you think? Will I impress?”
“The night’s still young, but you certainly look the part.”
I grin and blush at the same time. “Are you here alone?”
“My mistress is at the bar.” I’m glad he’s not concentrating on me as he says it because my double take would have been obvious. Klim points out a woman in the crowd. “Strike that—there she is. Natasha, come here.”
The woman who sidles up to Klim’s side is in her late thirties or early forties, Russian, blond. She’s gorgeous and dripping with diamonds, and her boobs have enough plastic to keep Lego in business for centuries.
“You must be the woman of the hour,” she says. “I’m Natasha.”
I offer her my hand. “Paige Orlov.”
“There’s been a lot of chatter about you, Paige. I’m glad to finally get the chance to meet you myself.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
“Well, you can’t please everyone.” Her eyes snake over my body, and I wonder if I’ve just been insulted. Before I can come to any conclusion, she turns to Klim. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather have wine than champagne. Excuse me.”
She heads off without acknowledging me. It’s my first brush with icy judgment from someone skilled at wielding it. “Well, she seems charming.”
Klim smiles. “I find myself partial to women with insufferable attitudes. The rule is that she can be as much of a bitch as she wants with everyone but me.”
“How lucky for the rest of us.”
The old man barks with laughter. “I like you, Paige. And I don’t say that often.”
I lift my glass to him as I back away with a wink. “Enjoy your evening, Klim.”
I continue to move around the room, taking in the pulse of the crowd. I am clearly, as Natasha put it, the woman of the hour. Everyone is interested in me, either coming up to introduce themselves or watching like hawks from the edges of the room.
But the only faces I’m interested in are the familiar ones.
I make sure to circle back around to Niki, Cyrille, or Nessa every fifteen minutes or so for a little boost of confidence before I throw myself back into the fray.
Misha is making the rounds like I am, but I stay clear of him. I don’t want it to look like I need him to feel secure about my position in this house.
I’m at the bar for a refill on my sparkling grape juice when two women appear on either side of me. It feels like an ambush, but I try to keep my cool.
The older woman smiles. “Hello, Paige.”
Shit.What was her name again? Raisa? Roksana? She wasn’t in my flashcards, but I met her half an hour ago with her husband. I should’ve been paying closer attention.
“I don’t think you’ve been introduced to Isidora yet,” she says.
I turn to the stunning blonde in the red dress. This woman I do recognize. She’s the trophy wife who is thirty-three years younger than her husband.
“Isidora Gusev.” I smile warmly. “Nice to meet you.”
Her expression is pleasant, but she doesn’t smile. “What an amazing dress. I actually saw it on the runway in Paris earlier this year. Or was it Milan? To be honest, some years, they all blend together when you’re going from show to show.”
