29. Lacey
29
LACEY
The dawn Parisian air hits my face as we descend the steps from the jet. The stylist team waves goodbye, their chatter fading into the morning breeze. My muscles ache from sitting still for so long, but the thrill of being in Paris makes me forget my discomfort or the reason why we're here.
"This way," Vadim says, his hand settling on my lower back as he guides me toward a sleek black Mercedes.
Demyon opens the door and I slide in, the leather seats cool against my skin. Vadim follows, his thigh pressing against mine in the spacious backseat.
"The Peninsula Paris," he tells me as soon as the doors close. "It's close to the cathedral."
I peek out the window as we pull away from the tarmac. "How close?”
"Five minutes." His fingers drum against his knee. "I've arranged for complete privacy. The entire hotel is ours."
"The entire hotel?" I turn to face him. "That seems..."
"Excessive?" A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. "Perhaps. But my boeviki need somewhere to stay while they ensure our safety."
The word 'safety' sends a shiver down my spine. This isn't just a romantic getaway. It's a heist. A dangerous one. My hands twist in my lap as reality sinks in.
Vadim's hand covers mine, stilling their nervous movement. "You're safe with me, zvyozdochka ."
The endearment makes my heart flutter despite everything. I look up at him, finding those storm-gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Your men," I say. "They'll be disguised as hotel staff?"
He nods, thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Among other things."
Just then, Demyon's phone rings. He answers in Russian, his expression darkening with each word. When he hangs up, he turns to look at Vadim.
"Olga Romanovna is already at the Peninsula Paris," Demyon says. "She demands to know what's going on and refuses to leave until you explain yourself."
Vadim's hand tightens around mine. A string of harsh Russian curses escapes his lips.
I study his profile, noting how his jaw clenches. "Your stepmother?"
"Yes." The word comes out like ice.
She sounds terrifying, and I haven't even met her yet.
"What do we do?" I ask.
"We face her." Vadim's thumb traces my engagement ring. “The only way to get past this is to get through it.”
“There’s no other way?” The word comes out squeakier than I intend.
“No other way.” His eyes meet mine. "Unless you'd rather wait in the car while I handle this?"
The challenge in his voice stirs something in me. "No. I won't hide."
A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. "Good." His fingers trail up my arm. “Nothing will infuriate her more than seeing us united."
The way he says 'united' sends shivers down my spine. Before I can respond, the car slows to a stop outside an elegant building with cream-colored stone and wrought iron balconies.
The Peninsula Paris looms before us, its elegant facade a stark contrast to the tension crackling in the air. As we step through the gilded entrance, my heart nearly stops.
A woman stands in the center of the marble lobby, surrounded by men in dark suits. Even from this distance, I can tell she's beautiful in the way a marble statue is beautiful—cold, perfect, untouchable. Her silver-streaked dark hair is pulled into an immaculate chignon, her tailored Chanel suit looks impeccably pressed, and rings decorate every single one of her fingers.
But it's her eyes that make my breath catch.
They're an icy blue, and completely devoid of warmth.
My fingers tighten around Vadim's arm as we approach. His muscles are taut beneath my touch, though his face remains impassive. I force my spine straight, channeling every ounce of grace I can muster. I won't let this woman see me trembling.
"Olga Romanovna," Vadim says, stepping forward to greet her. "I wasn't expecting?—"
The crack of her palm against his cheek echoes through the lobby. I flinch at the sound, but Vadim doesn't move an inch. A red mark blooms across his skin where her rings have caught him.
My fingers dig into Vadim's arm, but he remains stone-still beside me. Only the muscle ticking in his jaw betrays his tension.
"Olga Romanovna—" he begins, his voice level.
Another crack splits the air as her hand connects with his face again. The red mark deepens on his cheek.
"Tell me, bastard." Her icy blue eyes narrow. "Just what do you intend by bringing this— " she waves a dismissive hand at me "—into the family?"
Something snaps inside me. All the fear, all the uncertainty about my place here evaporates in a surge of protective fury. Before I realize what I'm doing, I step forward.
"You have no right to speak to him like this!" My voice rings through the marble lobby. "He's the pakhan. Not you."
"And what," she sneers. "Makes you think that you have any right to speak to me like this, devushka? "
"I have every right." I lift my chin. "I'm going to be his wife."
A predatory smile curves Olga's blood-red lips as she studies me. The air seems to grow colder under her frigid gaze.
"Wife, devushka? " she says, extending one perfectly manicured hand. "In that case, let us speak privately, one Stravinsky's wife to another."
Vadim's storm-gray eyes search mine and his arm tenses beneath my fingers. "Lacey?—"
"It's okay." I squeeze his arm, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "I can handle her."
I rise on tiptoe and press a kiss to his cheek, right where Olga struck him. His skin is warm against my lips, and I feel him inhale sharply at the contact.
Olga's smile turns razor-sharp. "Follow."
I release Vadim's arm and follow after her, my feet silent against the marble floor while her Louboutin heels echo with every step as she leads me toward a private sitting room off the main lobby.
The door closes behind us with a soft sound that reminds me of a prison cell door locking. Olga gestures to an elegant seat, but I remain standing.
I won't give her the height advantage.
"You certainly have spirit." she says, circling me like a shark. "But spirit alone won't be enough to survive in this world."
I meet her icy stare. "I'm not afraid of you."
"It's not me that you should be afraid of, devushka ." She stops directly in front of me. "It's his fiancée."
My heart stops. "What do you mean, his fiancée?"
"Has he not spoken a word about Sayanaa?" Olga's smile grows cruel.
I shake my head, unable to form words as she circles closer.
"Sayanaa Kuular." Her rings catch the light as she gestures. "Was promised to the Stravinsky heir since she was a child. A bratva princess through and through. She is not one who will take your slight to her honor so graciously."
Kuular. The name sounds familiar. And then hits me.
Kirsan Kuular.
Is Sayanaa… Kirsan’s daughter? Suddenly, Irina's words during my dress fitting come rushing back—about how Kirsan and Pyotr were once partners. About how they perfected the awful system that took advantage of the never-ending stream of girls who dreamed of joining the world of fashion.
I try to speak but can't find the words as I digest Olga’s revelation.
His fiancée. Why didn’t Vadim tell me he was engaged to Kirsan’s daughter? Did he think that if I knew, I wouldn’t have agreed to this heist?
But what would he have gained by keeping me in the dark?
And although I don’t want to, my mind keeps circling back to that night at Nathan's office—walking in to find Caroline perched on his desk, her legs wrapped around his waist. The betrayal burns fresh in my chest.
Did he do this so that I wouldn’t think I was the other woman?
Did he think I would say no if I knew?
"It's not too late," Olga says, her voice softening to a silky purr. "Tell me what you're really doing here with Pyotr's bastard, and I can help you get out before you face the consequences of his deceit."
My fingers tighten around the back of the chair, feeling the rich velvet beneath my touch. The offer sounds tempting.
But something about Olga's words leaves me feeling suspicious of her intent.
The way she struck Vadim. Twice. The cruel curl of her lips when as she calls him 'bastard.' The calculated gleam in her eyes as she watches me now, allegedly offering me her help.
No, I decide. I can't trust her.
"I appreciate your concern," I say, straightening my spine. “And thank you for telling me about his fiancée. But I know exactly where I stand with Vadim. And I know what I’m doing.”
"Do you, devushka? "
Those perfectly shaped eyebrows arch and she steps closer, and her perfume becomes almost suffocating as she boxes me in. The rings adorning her fingers catch the light as she reaches for my face.
I step back before she can touch me.
“I won’t change my mind.”
"No?" She lets out a bitter laugh. "Then why are you here?”
I meet her icy stare. "I'm here because I choose to be."
“You misunderstand me. Why Paris? ” Her perfectly manicured nail traces the edge of my jaw. "Why the same city where Sayanaa lives? Why not a ceremony in Seattle where your family can attend?"
My heart pounds against my ribs as I process Olga's questions. The real reason we're in Paris sits like a lead weight in my stomach. One wrong word to her and I know she can unravel everything.
So, I hold her gaze steady. "We wanted something intimate."
"Intimate?" She spits the word like poison. "In the Alexander Nevsky cathedral? Nothing about any of this is intimate. You're lying to me. And not very well. What game is he playing that requires such an elaborate charade? That inspires such devotion in you?”
“No game.” I stand a little taller. “You can believe what you want. About me. About him. About this."
"Listen carefully, devushka .” Her fingers grip my chin, forcing me to look at her. "Whatever game Pyotr's bastard is playing, whatever scheme he's wrapped you up in, it will end with blood on your hands. That's what they do, the Stravinskys. That's what he does."
I wrench away from her grip. "You don't know him at all."
"I know him better than you ever will." Her smile turns cruel. "After all, I watched him become exactly what his father needed him to be."
My fists clench at my sides as I stare at this elegant monster of a woman. "Vadim isn't?—"
"Isn't what? A killer? A criminal? A rapist?" Olga's laugh drips with disdain. "I guarantee you, he will become all of those and more in due time. Perhaps you think you can change him. Perhaps you've deluded yourself into thinking you can save him from himself. But you're wrong. The rotten apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Her eyes slowly drift to my neck, stopping when she catches sight of Mom's necklace.
"Everything else about you screams money trying too hard. The dress, the makeup, that ridiculous ring. But this..." Her finger traces the delicate chain. "This is different. Why this?"
"Because I wanted it." I keep my voice steady, even as my heart pounds.
I won't tell her about Mom, about what this necklace really means. I won't give her any more ammunition than she already has.
"If I can spot this little inconsistency." Olga's finger traces Mom’s necklace again. "Others at the wedding certainly will too."
I resist the urge to touch the necklace protectively. My heart pounds against my ribs as her words sink in. A chill runs down my spine despite the warmth of the room.
The way she says it makes it sound less like a warning and more like a threat.
"Every lie you tell me incurs a debt to the truth." Her voice drops lower, becoming almost intimate. "And sooner or later, that debt must be paid."
Her perfectly manicured hand cups my cheek in a mockery of maternal concern. "Pray, devushka , that whoever pays that debt isn't someone you care about."
My mind flashes to Megan, to Dad sitting alone in his house. Even to Freddy, who for all his faults, is still family. The weight of what I'm doing—what I'm risking—settles over me like a lead blanket.
I want to step back from her touch, but my feet feel frozen to the marble floor. Her ice-blue eyes bore into mine, searching for any crack in my composure that might reveal the truth she's hunting for.
"Such bravery," she purrs, releasing my face. "Standing up to me. Defending him. Almost admirable, if it weren't so foolish."
I force myself to hold her gaze despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs. She circles me again, heels clicking softly against the marble floor until she stops directly behind me.
Her breath tickles my ear as she leans in close and presses an ice-cold kiss to my cheek.
"Remember. Sooner or later, Pyotr's bastard will put blood on your hands. It's only a matter of time."
Her words slither down my spine like a frozen snake. I want to argue, to defend him, but the absolute certainty in her voice steals my breath away.
And for a moment, I dare to believe her.