♞Chapter Thirteen♞
Mikhail
It’s the day of the exhibition. She picked out what I’m wearing.
And I let her. Like an idiot. Now, standing in the middle of this gallery, I know I made a mistake.
Because I can’t look away from her. The white dress fits her like a second skin, floor-length, elegant, and the square neckline is practically sinful.
Her tits peek out just enough to make every man in this room steal glances.
Her auburn hair is pin-straight, reaching her ass.
I helped her straighten it, hours of her between my legs, her scent in my lungs.
I’m weak for her. And I hate myself for it.
Her paintings are nothing short of exquisite.
Every brushstroke, every shadow, and color, she poured herself into them, and it shows.
The guests can’t get enough, whispering about her talent, praising her like she hung the goddamn moon.
The men are practically on their knees. They laugh too hard at her jokes.
Their hands twitch, like they’re seconds away from pressing a hand to the small of her back, from stealing even a sliver of what’s mine.
But I won’t cause a scene. Instead, I grab a glass from a passing waiter and gulp it down.
I hate how much I want to rip her away from all of this and remind her that no matter how many people look at her like she’s their muse, their obsession, their dream…
she’s mine. She even smiles at her father.
That prick. To anyone else, it looks natural.
Like she’s a daughter who actually means something to him.
Like he’s a father who gives a shit. But I know better.
I shouldn’t have come or let her pull me into this.
Because this thing between us can’t go anywhere.
Why am I playing house with her when I know damn well I can’t have her?
Why do I think of her as mine when she can never be?
This thing between us can’t progress. Not without putting her in danger.
Not without dragging her into a world where men like me don’t get happy endings.
There is also something peculiar I notice...
I know when she’s truly happy, and this isn’t it. She’s performing. Smiling in all the right places, laughing at all the right moments. To everyone else, she’s the picture of charm, the perfect host, effortlessly weaving through the crowd and entertaining guests.
However, her spine is too straight. Her left eye twitches from time to time. She’s looking at faces too carefully, as if she already knows every single one, as if she’s searching for someone new.
The tension in her shoulders only melts when she looks at me.
Or when she’s with the friend she introduced me to, a shy thing. I watch as she touches the girl’s arm, says something that pulls a smile out of her, and eases some of the stiffness in her posture. My phone vibrates. Roman.
I step into a darkened side room, shut the door behind me, and press the phone to my ear.
“You don’t know someone who can step into the forgery, huh?” he huffs, straight to the point.
“We already talked about this,” I snap.
“And I’m asking again.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t have anyone.”
Roman clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “Bullshit.”
I grip the bridge of my nose. “Stay the fuck out of my business.”
“Your business was never just yours. You forget that?”
I can’t let this conversation go where he wants it to.
If I give him even a hint about Lola, if he suspects what she means to me, he’ll never let it go.
I force a scoff. “You think I’d trust some pampered little gallery girl with something like this?
She wouldn’t last a day. She’s not even that good. ”
She’s not “good”. She’s exceptional.
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Then your sources are shit. She’s fine,” I say, the words like poison in my mouth. “Not good enough to be useful. And I don’t trust her not to snitch the second things get real. She’s soft. She doesn’t have it in her.”
It burns. Every syllable, every lie.
“That’s a shame. Could’ve been a neat solution.”
“It was never an option,” I growl. “Drop it.”
I hear the faint flick of a lighter on the other end. “You sure she’s nothing?” His voice is casual, but I know him too well.
“She’s a fuck. Convenient, nothing more.”
She’s everything. And I’d burn for her before I ever said that out loud.
“Good. We both know what happens when men like us start thinking they can have something real.”
“Yeah. We do.”
We break it. Because that’s all we know how to do.
The line clicks dead. I stand there for a moment, staring at the phone in my hand.
She means everything. And I just told my brother she meant nothing.
I’m falling in love with her. The thought crashes into me like a freight train.
Raw. Brutal. Unrelenting. I brace my hands against the cold wall, my breath sharp and uneven.
The air in this secluded room feels stale, suffocating.
The words still cling to my skin like filth.
She’s a fuck. Convenient. Nothing more.
I grab a nearby flower pot, the nausea hitting too fast to stop.
I heave into it, bile burning on the way out.
Steadying myself, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, fighting the dizziness.
If I don’t get a grip, she’ll be my downfall.
She’ll become a liability to the Bratva.
A name on their list. A way to break me.
I wish I could run. God, I wish I could take her and vanish into a world where none of this exists.
But there’s no escaping this life. The only exit is death.
I tilt my head back and slam it against the wall. The pain doesn’t solve anything. But it reminds me I’m still here. That I still have control.
I shove my phone into my pocket and push off the wall, heading back into the main hall of the gallery. My eyes scan the crowd.
Where is she?
A scowl carves itself across my face. She was just here.
When I spot her, my entire body ignites.
She’s standing too close to some guy, polished, clean-cut, the kind who probably drinks whiskey neat and calls his mother every Sunday.
Safe. So goddamn safe. He’s looking at her like she’s the dream he’s been chasing his whole life.
And she’s laughing at something he said.
My hands clench into fists. I move before I can stop myself. For the first time since I’ve known her, when she looks at me, she’s cold. What the hell? When have our names existed in the same breath without heat, without tension, without fire?
I stand beside her, and the guy barely glances at me.
“You’re remarkable, really,” he says. “I’ve never seen anything quite like your work.”
My teeth grind together. He doesn’t get to talk about her like that. He doesn’t get to look at her like that.
“I’d be honored to buy all your paintings.”
I snake an arm around his neck, casual enough to look friendly. But my grip is painfully tight. That’s when he finally notices me, fear clouding his eyes. “They are not for sale,” I murmur.
“I think I’ll reconsider,” he stammers.
Good boy.
I release him, and he rubs his neck, clearly unsure whether what happened was real. He throws Lola a weak smile. “Another time, then.”
Her stare cuts through me as that prick walks away. “You’re buying my work now?” she scoffs.
“I’ll be the only one to buy them,” I say flatly.
She lets out a low laugh. “Of course you will.”
I glare at her, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Who the fuck was that?”
She studies me like she’s assessing damage. Then she lifts her chin and says, “He was like you… a convenient fuck.”
The floor shifts under me. My own words echo back, poisoned and sharp. She doesn’t flinch as she lands another blow. “And he certainly deserves my paintings more than you. He actually appreciates my talent. I’m not just ‘fine’ at anything, Mikhail Volkov.”
The words tear through me like bullets.
She heard me.