Chapter 28
LYRA
We spent four days in New Orleans.
Four days of hospital visits and Mama’s cooking, four days of Julian sitting on the front porch reading Dad’s battered copy of A Confederate General from Big Sur while I handle foundation calls from the kitchen table.
Dad recovered quicker than anyone expected. Dr. Broussard called him stubborn, but I know he meant it in a good way. Dad’s always followed his own timeline, and recovering from surgery has been no exception.
By day three, Dad was arguing with the nurses about the Saints’ defensive line and trying to talk Mama into sneaking boudin into the hospital.
By day four, Mama was shooing us back to New York, insisting that she had everything under control, reminding Julian that he had a company to run, and I had a fundraiser to plan.
She hugged Julian tightly at the airport, which surprised the hell out of me. A full-on embrace, arms-wrapped around him with enough strength to make Julian’s eyes go a little wide.
That was three weeks ago. Since then, everything has been about the fundraiser.
And tonight, it’s finally here.
The Whitmore looks like a completely different building. I barely recognize it from the bare-bones venue Anya and I first inspected almost a month ago. The entrance is flanked by white birches strung with micro-lights—ten thousand of them actually—all placed gently by hand.
Inside, the converted warehouse has been transformed into something between an art gallery vibe and a cathedral.
The tables are draped in ivory linen, centerpieces of white peonies and eucalyptus in mercury glass adorn each one.
Candlelight is multiplied by mirrors I had mounted along the east wall to double the visual depth of the room.
The stage is set for a string quartet, and there will be a keynote speaker from the Children’s Harbor Alliance.
The bar has been repositioned, just like I’d asked, and Ethan’s security checkpoints have been seamlessly integrated into the flow—guests will pass through three layers of them without ever feeling like they’re being screened.
It’s taken a hell of a lot of work. Six weeks of fourteen-hour days, a venue change, and a drive-by shooting. Not to mention a quick trip to New Orleans for my dad’s surgery.
It’s perfect. I know it’s perfect.
But at the moment, I’m in the bathroom throwing up.
The nausea came out of nowhere twenty minutes ago.
Nerves. It has to be nerves.
But there’s a lot I’ve been chalking up to nerves lately—exhaustion, sensitivity to certain smells, the way coffee suddenly tastes like battery acid, and just the thought of alcohol makes my stomach roil.
Nerves. Stress. Six weeks of running on adrenaline with barely any sleep.
Thank God the bathroom is private. I stand and rinse my mouth, then fix my dress.
It’s gorgeous—midnight blue, floor-length, and off-the-shoulder. It fits snug through the bodice, then flows down from the hip. At first, I thought it was a little much, but the second I said those words to Julian, he insisted it was perfect.
The dress doesn’t apologize for my curves at all. Hell, it celebrates them. There’s an air of authority to it, like I don’t have a thing to prove, that I know who I am, and anyone who doesn’t like it can screw off.
Of course, looking like the woman in charge would be a little easier if I wasn’t feeling so sick to my stomach, but I’ll have to deal with what I’m given. When I’m certain the nausea has passed, I step out of the bathroom and into the event.
The place is alive with 300 guests, the room humming with conversation and music, and the type of energy you only feel when an event is working the way it’s supposed to.
I look around, my gaze landing on Elena Volkov. She’s holding court at the VIP table, pearls gleaming, while she gestures with her champagne flute as she speaks, effortlessly holding the attention of the donors gathered around her in a semicircle.
Julian is near the stage, speaking with a pair of syndicate heads. He wears a black suit with no tie, shirt open at the collar. The candlelight highlights the silver at his temples, making him appear more handsome than ever. He looks up, and somehow, across a room of 300 people, his eyes find mine.
I smile. His gaze softens, just for a second, just for me, before the stoic mask settles back into place.
I’m crossing toward the donor reception line when the atmosphere seems to shift. I feel the vibe before I see the people. The feeling in the air changes, and my stomach knots. Trouble’s coming.
Laura Volkov enters first. She looks amazing—no sense trying to deny it. She’s dressed in a long, cream-colored gown, her diamonds glittering beneath the light of the chandelier. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was royalty.
In a sense, she is.
Alexander trails in behind her, dressed in another one of his impeccable suits—this one navy. His hair is freshly cut, and his cuff links are flashy as ever. He practically struts into the room, like it’s his and he wants everyone to know it.
Sophia is at his side, looking gorgeous in a black gown with a daring slit, her lips a ruby red, her posture defiant.
They move through the crowd with purpose.
Then they move toward me.
Laura reaches me first, a prim, tight little smile on her lips.
“Lyra. So nice to see you.”
I offer a tight-lipped smile in return. “Laura. Likewise.”
She looks around, taking in the scene. “Such a lovely event. You must be so proud.”
“Thank you, Laura. I am.”
I’ve dealt with enough mean-girl bullies to recognize the strategy—nice and polite before slipping in the knife. I almost want to tell her to get to the barbs already and to quit wasting time.
She takes another look around. “Irina would’ve appreciated the attention to detail.
” As she speaks, she surveys the room with the precision of a woman trained to notice flaws.
“Though, I have to wonder if she’d appreciate her foundation being used as a stepping stone for someone trying to worm their way into our family. ”
And there it is. I have to admit; it’s a good angle—taking the hard work I’ve put into this event and writing it off as nothing more than me trying to use them to rise above my station.
But it’s not going to work.
“My connection to the foundation is professional, Laura. I’m the event coordinator, and this is my latest event.”
“Professional.” Alexander appears at his mother’s shoulder, a smug little smile on his lips. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I ball my hands into fists at my side for a second. I don’t want to give them even a hint that they’re getting the better of me.
“Alexander, let’s keep things civil. No reason to get personal about anything anymore.”
I want to give him an out. After all, the last thing I need tonight is dealing with a trio of bullies when I’ve got a million details to keep my eye on.
“I’m just saying,” he says, shrugging with faux innocence. “Last time I checked, professional doesn’t involve spending the night at the CEO’s apartment. Or impromptu trips to New Orleans together. Or whatever is happening in Julian’s office behind closed doors.”
The guests at the nearest table have gone awkwardly quiet. They’re obviously listening in but trying to appear as if they’re not. I’ve got just a few minutes to defuse this before phones go up and the news of drama makes its way around the room.
“It’s amazing, Lyra, really,” Sophia says. “Most people might feel a little shame about swapping one brother for the next. But not you.”
The nausea surges again. But it isn’t nerves this time—it’s fury, bright and hot.
“Sophia, I may need to take another look at the guest list, but I’m pretty sure you weren’t invited.”
“I’m Alexander’s guest,” she says, lifting her chin. “Therefore, I’ve got every right to be here, despite your petty little blacklisting. If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to get security to drag me out.”
“Oh, I bet you’d love a scene like that,” I say, unable to help myself.
A pleased smile forms on Laura’s lips as she takes a step closer. I can sense that she knows they’re getting under my skin as much as I wish it wasn’t the case.
“Lyra, dear,” she says. “I told you what would happen if you kept inserting yourself into this family. You’re playing dress-up in a world you don’t understand.
Speaking of the dress—” Her eyes travel up and down, amusement flashing on her face.
“Well, it’s doing quite a bit of heavy lifting, isn’t it? ”
The heat hits my throat, traveling up my face and warming my cheeks. The old shame—Alexander’s shame, Sophia’s shame. The body I’ve spent months learning to love suddenly feels too big, too visible, too much.
Laura’s grin grows wider, seeing that her comment hit the mark.
“This is all too much for you,” she says. “And it’s plain as day. Why don’t you scurry back to the bayou where you belong—there are enough pretenders in this city.”
The shame turns to rage. I know I should keep my mouth shut and not make a scene, but I can’t help it. Call it Southern pride, call it whatever you want. But it’s there, and it’s hot.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can get a single syllable out, another voice cuts through the air.
“Enough.”
Julian. I didn’t see him cross the room. But he’s now beside me, his hand on the small of my back.
Laura’s eyes flash. It’s all fun and games until the man in charge shows up.
“Julian,” she says. “We were just—”
“You were just leaving,” he finishes. “Unless you’d like to explain why you three saw it fit to show up and insult Lyra in front of 300 guests at an event honoring my mother’s name.”
Laura’s face goes blank. Alexander’s jaw tightens. Sophia lowers her eyes.
“This is my mother’s foundation,” Julian says, his tone low and threatening.
“Her name is on the wall behind you. She built this foundation so that children who have nothing could have something. And you three dare stand before her name, at her event, using her legacy as a stage for your petty, vicious, small-minded—and frankly, childish—cruelty.”
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. The guests around us have noticed the confrontation. And I can tell by the vibe shift that the rest of the room is starting to tune in to the fact that the CEO and the head event planner are in the middle of a heated conflict with the rest of the Volkov family.
We need to tamp this down— and quickly—before it’s all anyone can talk about, and before it’ll be all anyone remembers about the event that I worked so hard to make a success.
“Now,” Julian continues, his voice shifting back to a professional tone, sensitive to the idea of making a scene.
“If you can’t behave with the basic decency that my mother would’ve demanded of anyone in this room—family or stranger—then you are welcome to leave.
Right now.” A pause. “Or you can sit down, close your mouths, and show some respect. The choice is yours. You have ten seconds.”
Laura’s composure fractures a bit. Alexander looks dumbfounded. And I can tell by the way Sophia is shifting her stance that she’s ready to rush out of the nearest exit.
“Ten,” Julian says, reminding me of a dad counting down for his kids, “Nine…”
“We’ll stay,” Laura whispers. “We’ll behave.”
Julian nods. “Good. Then sit down. They’re at table 14, right, Lyra?”
I snap to attention, my eyes flashing wide.
“Yes. Table 14 is where I have Laura, Alexander, and Alexander’s plus one.”
“Excellent,” Julian says, then turns to the three of them. “Now head over there before I have you escorted over.”
They retreat without another word. Laura’s heels click furiously across the floor while Alexander follows with his hand on Sophia’s back.
Julian turns me gently toward him.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Yes. I think so. It’s just… God, I can’t imagine that being all anyone talks about after the event.”
He grins.
“Then let’s give them something else to discuss.”
He leans in, tilts my chin up with his index finger, and kisses me. Gently at first, then deeply. Then he slowly pulls away.
“You have an event to run,” he says. “And it’s extraordinary. You’re extraordinary. Now go.”
I smile, and in that instant, all I want is to kiss him back—hard.
But I don’t.
“Thank you,” I say, just above a whisper.
As I turn to go, my hands are shaking, my heart hammering.
I take a deep breath, straighten my gown, and lift my chin. Then I walk back into the room I built, ready to run the most successful fundraiser the Irina Volkov Foundation has ever seen.