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And entirely fake,I have to remind myself.
The room is full of what looks to be foreign dignitaries and beautiful women—Demyen’s escorts, probably—all talking and sipping on expensive champagne while not-so-discreetly staring at each other.
Well, more like, the men keep staring at the women. And the women either don’t notice or they don’t care.
“Stay with me,” Demyen mutters in my ear. He squeezes my hip to get his point across. “Don’t leave my side. For anything. Understood?”
I want to break his fingers just so he’ll stop touching me. “Of course, Mr. Zakrevsky.”
He very much looks like he wants to glare at me. But he maintains his “loving boyfriend” act and presses a kiss to my brow. “Good girl.”
Fuck.
You.
A waiter circulates the section we’re casually strolling through and offers us flutes of champagne, which I automatically turn down the same time Demyen accepts them.
When he arches a brow at me, obviously wanting an explanation, I muster up a small, fake laugh. “I’m having a hard time balancing on these heels sober!”
Demyen seems to accept that plausible reason, so he takes only one flute for himself. Then he knocks it back in a single gulp and sets the empty flute on the tray.
The waiter pretends to not judge him and silently walks away.
I find that interesting. “Nervous?” I sweetly ask.
Demyen scowls. “No.”
“You seem tense.”
“I’m fine.”
Now that I’m genuinely looking at him—like, really taking a moment to study him…
He does not seem “fine” at all. That vein in his jaw keeps ticking whenever he forgets he’s supposed to be smiling. His eyes keep sliding back and forth like he’s scanning the room for faces he doesn’t want to see.
And it’s either my imagination or he’s holding me a bit closer and a bit tighter.
“Fuck,” he suddenly whispers.
I follow his frozen stare and almost blurt the same word, but much louder.
Dad andMartinare here.
Worse—they’ve spotted us.
26
CLARA
It’s too late to run and hide, which I know because Demyen’s hand on my back keeps me rooted in place when I do actually try to slip away and make a run for it. My only consolation is knowing he doesn’t want to deal with this any more than I do.
“Detectives Everett, Patterson.” Demyen greets them, oddly emphasizing the word “detective.” Several faces glance our way, and even more of the foreign dignitaries take very obvious steps away from us as they nervously eye my father and ex.
Martin scans me up and down, pissed as hell. Unlike Demyen, who can contain his rage behind a mask of civility and a small tic in his jaw, Martin turns beet red and flustered almost instantly.
“Clara! What the hell are you doing here?” he spits, casting his glare between me and Demyen.
For once, Demyen doesn’t interject to answer for me. Is it a test of my loyalty to my own word? If so, I intend to pass with flying colors. So I smile demurely, lay a gentle hand on Demyen’s chest, and keep my voice soft. “Demyen thought it would be wonderful to have an evening out. Isn’t that right, baby?”
