Chapter 33
Mary
Istand in the most ignored corner I can find, pretending to admire the centerpiece on a dessert table no one’s touched. It’s a sculpture made of spun sugar shaped like angel wings.
Fitting.
I’m trying not to pass out.
Champagne flutes clink in the background. Laughter swells like waves I can’t ride. Everyone’s dressed like old Hollywood, but their smiles don’t reach their eyes. Too white. Too perfect. Like they’re all here to watch something die and pretend it’s art.
My hands shake so badly that I keep them clenched around my clutch like it’s a weapon. Maybe it is. Lip gloss, mints, phone, and a silent prayer that I’m not called out for being a fraud.
I glance around to make sure no one’s looking, then lower my voice and talk to the air like an actual crazy person.
“Hello… uhm… can you hear me? Over.”
Crackling silence. For a second, I think the line’s dead. Or worse, that I’m alone.
Then—
“We hear you.”
His voice.
Anton’s voice.
It slides in low and steady, deep enough to make something in my stomach tilt.
No panic. No static. Just control. The earpiece is smaller than a lentil, barely visible unless you know where to look.
It sits deep in my ear canal, hidden behind a strand of hair Jasper curled too tight.
When Anton speaks, it’s just a faint vibration against my skin—like a thought I didn’t mean to have.
God. It’s not fair how that voice works on me. It should come with a warning label. Or a muzzle.
My hands stop shaking.
Just like that.
They’ve been trembling ever since he decided personal space was optional.
Timofey Volkov.
Even thinking his name makes my skin crawl.
It’s not that he’s loud or obvious. He isn’t. That’s what’s worse. He’s quiet. Effortless. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice because everyone already leans closer on instinct.
When he walked up to me earlier, I noticed stupid things first, like how his suit fit too well to be off a rack, or how his cufflinks caught the light like they had stories buried in them.
Charcoal wool, silk tie the color of dried blood.
Hands manicured, movements unhurried. Everything about him said old money and older sins.
But it was his eyes that did it.
Blue. Not the pretty kind you write poems about. The kind that belong to overcast skies before a hurricane hits. Sharp and still, like he was already inside my head, rearranging the furniture.
And then he leaned in.
Right into my space. Breath warm against my skin, cologne faint and expensive. And that voice… smooth and practiced, a little too close to my ear.
“You don’t know me yet. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
The words had weight. Not curiosity—ownership. Like he wasn’t warning me so much as claiming me.
And in that second, I swear he knew.
He knew someone was listening. He knew I wasn’t alone in my head. He knew about Anton.
Like he could hear the steady breath in my ear, too. Like he was smiling for the cameras while staring straight through the line that tethered me to the man across the street.
It wasn’t just intimidation. It was a message. I see you. All of you. Even the parts you think are hidden.
I grip the clutch tighter and swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs. His cologne is still clinging to my skin. My heartbeat still hasn’t come down entirely.
Okay. Breathe. You’re fine. Normal people breathe all the time. In. Out. Like a person who isn’t about to spontaneously combust in front of a dessert table.
Someone glances my way—a woman in diamonds and judgment—and I panic-laugh too loudly, like I just remembered a hilarious joke told by no one.
“Oh wow,” I say to absolutely no one, pointing at the sugar wings like they just saved my life. “Look at that craftsmanship. Michelangelo who? I mean, if angels were made of… uh… diabetes.”
The woman blinks, nods politely, and walks off—probably to tell her friends there’s an unstable pastry enthusiast loose in the ballroom.
I press my lips together and pretend to study the wings again, but my eyes are darting everywhere. Every waiter’s tray looks suspicious. Every camera flash feels like a spotlight.
I hate that I’m shaking over a man who hasn’t even touched me beyond a kiss on the cheek. I hate that a single whisper can unravel me this fast.
But mostly, I hate that he’s still somewhere in this room—watching—and that I can feel it.
To look normal, I do what any self-respecting adult at a mafia-adjacent gala would do: I grab a pastry.
The dessert tray is untouched, which should’ve been my first clue. But I need to chew something or I’ll start chewing the inside of my cheek, and that’s not a sexy look when you’re already sweating through a satin bra.
I pick up what looks like a tiny tart.
It flakes apart in my hand like it’s made of dried regret and powdered sugar.
I bite it anyway.
It’s… citrusy? Maybe? And somehow damp?
Great. I’m now making direct eye contact with a billionaire hedge fund guy while chewing what might be a lemon-scented bathroom sponge.
I try to nod like, “Yes, very tart-forward, fascinating mouthfeel,” but my throat picks that exact moment to betray me, and I cough—once, then twice, loud enough to earn a few side-eyes and a “bless her heart“ smile from a woman in a gold gown.
I swipe a napkin and dab at my lips like I’m dainty and unbothered. I am neither.
That’s when a familiar voice breaks through the noise—smooth, polished, and exactly the kind that’s learned how to fill a room without raising the volume.“Mary! There you are.”
I look up. Of course.Caleb Whitfield, back from charming donors or plotting his next quarterly takeover, or whatever Regional Vice Presidents do when they disappear for fifteen minutes and leave you stranded with a tray of damp pastries.Mister Too Many Teeth in One Smile.Mister Let Me Exploit You for PR.
He’s gliding toward me, drink in hand, blazer crisp, that perfectly rehearsed grin glued to his face like it’s part of his marketing package.
God help me.
He snakes an arm around my waist like we’re old friends at a family barbecue. I try not to jerk away.
“Look happy,” he says to me, grinning for a photographer nearby. “You’re my plus one, remember? Brightside Bank’s very own Cinderella.” He gives me a once-over that lingers too long. “You actually look good tonight. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Guess I clean up well,” I say. The words taste fake, but I manage a laugh that passes for human. Barely.
He pulls me along before I can breathe. “Come on. Time to meet the board.”
We glide through glittering tables and chandelier shadows. Caleb’s fingers stay hooked around my arm like he’s afraid I’ll run. His fingers press. Not hard. Just there. Constant. Like he’s steering a shopping cart.
I shake hands, smile, nod, repeat. My cheeks hurt. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I lie for survival.
His hand never leaves my arm. Sometimes it’s on my elbow, sometimes the small of my back. Always guiding. Always claiming. To anyone watching, he looks like the perfect gentleman—confident, protective, the kind of man who “mentors” women he underpays.
“Smile,” he says through his teeth, “this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Noted,” I answer lightly, because the room is full of men who don’t say please.
The tour starts. Handshakes. Photos. The same script.
“This is Mary Sullivan,” he tells a group of men near the champagne tower. “Brightside’s rising star.”
Every handshake is heavy; rings that dig, knuckles that have seen things. No introductions. No names. Just the weight of being evaluated. One man’s cuff rides up, and I catch black ink curling around his wrist. Cyrillic. I don’t stare.
Caleb’s palm slides to my lower back. From a distance, it reads as chivalry. Up close, it’s a leash.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re doing fine.”
Translation: Don’t make me look weak in front of them.
We pause by a table with little white place cards. I recognize three surnames from wire memos at the bank. They sit in a neat row like accusations. The men attached to them don’t bother to stand. One lifts his glass and looks through me. Another pretends I’m air.
Caleb keeps the patter going—matching funds, community impact. The words sound clean. The eyes around us don’t.
A senator’s wife stops me with a bracelet that claws.
“You’re adorable,” she says, perfume thick enough to drink. “So brave at your age.”
“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t have time to unpack whatever that means.
We move on. Cameras flash. A bodyguard blocks a server with one shoulder and never looks at me, which somehow feels worse.
Caleb guides me toward the center of the room, where the tables get bigger, shinier, quieter. The name cards here aren’t printed—they’re engraved. Every seat has its own server hovering nearby, waiting to refill a glass that’s barely been touched.
The VIP table is its own world. Senator Rowe. A casino owner I recognize from a billboard off I-15. A woman dripping sapphires and boredom. And then… Timofey Volkov.
He doesn’t look up right away, just lifts a wine glass and studies the color like it’s telling him a secret. The tux fits like it was built for him. The kind of fit money doesn’t buy; fear does.
When he finally raises his eyes, it feels like the floor tilts. Unreadable, cold enough to quiet the noise around us.
“Beside him sits a woman who looks like she was ordered from a catalog titled 'Billionaire's Accessories.
Blonde hair sculpted into place, skin that never sees sunlight without permission.
Diamonds at her throat catch the chandelier and scatter it back across the table.
She touches his sleeve once when she laughs—practiced, perfect, all surface.
Wife? Mistress? Paid to be both? Hard to tell. Whatever she is, she knows how to belong here.
Timofey gives Caleb the kind of smile that isn’t a smile. “I like to see who else shows up on time.”
Caleb chuckles like it was a compliment, then gestures toward two empty seats. “Right this way.”
He pulls my chair out first—engraved plate gleaming: MARY SULLIVAN — Brightside National Bank. Because nothing says “underpaid bank employee” like your name carved into solid brass.
I nod politely toward the others, manage a smile that hopefully reads “confident professional” and not “woman seconds from spontaneous combustion.”
Inside, I’m already halfway home, mentally curled up next to Gordo, eating cereal over the sink, and pretending I didn’t just survive organized crime dinner theater. But on the outside, I cross my ankles and sit like I do this every weekend.
If my father could see me now, he’d probably choke on his beer. His daughter, sitting at a table surrounded by people who own zip codes.
He’d make some crack about me “finally using that degree for something,” and my stepmother would correct him with, “Personal banking, dear, not investment.” Melissa would post about it online with the caption “So proud of my big sis!” and twenty hashtags about empowerment, while I’m just trying not to sweat through borrowed satin.
The waiter sets down a dish that looks like it came from a museum instead of a kitchen. There’s foam. Maybe edible. Maybe spackle.
I take a sip of champagne to steady myself.
Across the table, Timofey Volkov sits angled just enough that I can feel his attention before I see it. He doesn’t need to stare; just the slow turn of his head is enough to make the air shift.
When our eyes meet, he raises his champagne glass in a silent toast. The kind that feels less like cheers and more like checkmate.
The woman beside him notices. She leans in to whisper something, her diamond earring catching the light, her gaze slicing toward me in a practiced, dismissive side-eye… the kind only beautiful, dangerous women can pull off without moving a muscle.
I smile back anyway. Barely. The polite kind you give a person who might own your neighborhood. Then I look away and take another drink, because what else do you do when the scariest man in the room just toasted you?
The champagne burns this time.
Then the voice hits my ear—low, threaded with static, too close.
“We need you sober.”
My throat locks. The glass hovers halfway up, the bubbles freezing midair. The earpiece hums again, a vibration just deep enough to feel, not hear.
Anton.
I almost spit the champagne back out, but catch myself, forcing it down with a shaky swallow. My hand trembles once before I hide it under the table. I pretend to fix my hair, brushing a curl over my ear like nothing happened.
He’s here.
Watching me.
The whole room could burn, and somehow I’d still feel safe knowing he’s the one holding the match.