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She pauses and waits for me to comment, but I don’t. Dima? Why does that sound familiar?
“He’s around, talking to the men,” Darya continues as she cocks an eyebrow. “How old are you, girl?”
“I’m eighteen.” I try hard not to stare at her huge breasts, but she’s wearing heels that put them right at eye level, and she radiates bitch energy.
“Best stay away from my Dima.” Darya laughs, her voice shrill and sharp. But her eyes betray no humor, and when she stares, I can see the hate in them. “I told thatneryakhathat I was twentywhen he came to talk to me. One look at you, and he’ll know I lied.”
I clutch the stem of my glass and pull at the hem of my dress, aware of how out of place my pastel dress looks among these sophisticated designer dresses.
“I’ll keep that in mind then,” I stammer and walk away before Darya has a chance to throw out some other not-so-veiled threats at me.
I bump into a brunette in a swirly gown. At first, she scowls and then must realize who I am. “You’re Eden, right?” she asks. “Nikolai’s … friend?”
“Fiancée, actually,” I correct her, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s ourweddingshower.”
“Of course,” she says, her lips curving into a condescending smile. “Well, I do hope you enjoy yourself, dear.” She turns her back on me and giggles with her blonde companion.
My cheeks burn with humiliation as I walk through the room, trying to ignore the snickers and smirks that follow me. I can feel their eyes on me, weighing my worth by their own impossible standards. And as hard as I try to hold myself together, I can feel the cracks beginning to form in my patience.
My grip on the champagne glass tightens, and the fragile stem threatens to snap. I want to scream, then shout at them.
These criminals have no right to judge me! But throwing a tantrum like a child is what they want.
And I refuse to give them the entertainment they’re so desperate for.
I look around for Nikolai, but I don’t see him as tears blur my vision.
He said he would protect me.
“Such a shame Nikolai lowered his standards,” a woman whispers to another, her eyes narrowed as I drag past them. “He used to have such good taste.”
“Perhaps it’s just a phase,” another woman replies, her words thick with venom. “He’ll get bored after she spreads those pretty legs of hers.”
A hand grips my upper arm, and I’m about to shake it off when I turn. “Nikolai.” I gasp, throwing myself into his arms. His presence is instantly soothing, a welcome relief from the catty comments aimed at me all day. “Where have you been?”
He smiles lightly. “It’s nice to be missed.”
He seems oblivious to the tension in the room, and his relaxed manner is a stark contrast to the icy atmosphere that’s following me around. I look around as we stand in the center of the ballroom. And the festive decorations—the balloons, the flowers, the table settings—all seem less pretty.
His expression turns somber, and I see a hint of concern. Nikolai leans in and places his lips gently against mine as he pulls me in. That kiss is a lifeline that I need right now. I try not to lose my breath, but when he pulls back, I sigh as my eyes flutter open.
“Come.” Nikolai smiles, pleased with himself. “I would like you to meet someone.”
An elegant redhead with a sharp nose and a crisp black designer gown stands a few feet away, and Nikolai guides me to her. She glances up and down at my ridiculous dress and then a sardonicsmirk rises to her face. But there’s something different about her. She doesn’t seem to carry the cattiness of the other women in her smile, nor does she look like she’s judging me.
And I get the feeling that she could snap a man’s neck without trying.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Sonia appears, and the two women exchange a look as if they’re sharing a secret.
I straighten my back and try to look like I don’t give a shit even though I do. I really do.
“Natasha Chuikov.” She holds out her hand to shake mine.
Damn, that’s a firm grip.Yep. She coulddefinitelysnap a neck without trying.
“Natasha’s husband, Dmitry, is a close associate of Andrei Barinov,” Nikolai fills me in.
“Oh, is that what we call pakhans now?” Natasha asks bluntly, before switching to a string of Russian that I can only assume is swearing.
