Chapter 10 #2
The song was ending. I could feel it in the way the tempo began its gentle close, in the way the crowd around us had started the small movements of people preparing to uncouple. Twenty seconds, perhaps less.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said.
“Yes.”
Another beat. Her hand was still in mine. Neither of us had moved toward separation.
“There’s a balcony,” she said quietly. “East side. My father won’t follow me there. He finds the cold disagreeable.” Her eyes met mine. “I need some air.”
The east balcony was nearly empty.
The winter air had driven most of the guests back inside, leaving only the distant glow of the city and the muted sound of the orchestra filtering through the glass doors.
Polina stood at the railing with her arms folded loosely across her middle. She didn’t turn when I stepped out beside her.
“I was beginning to think you’d decided this was, in fact, a terrible idea.”
“I still think that.”
A corner of her mouth lifted.
“Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”
For a moment we stood in silence, looking out over the city.
“This is insane,” she said eventually.
“Probably.”
“You approached my father.”
“I did.”
“You danced with me in front of him.”
“I did that too.”
She shook her head.
“Most people spend years avoiding him.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” she said softly. “You’re really not.”
The words settled between us.
The wind shifted, carrying a strand of her hair across her face. I tucked it behind her ear.
A mistake. The kind that could become a problem later.
Her gaze found mine.
Neither of us looked away.
Below us the city glittered, and somewhere behind the glass, the orchestra continued playing for people who were busy being seen.
There were a dozen ways I could have steered this conversation. A dozen careful, professional approaches.
Out here, for the first time all evening, neither of us was performing.
That realization was more dangerous than it should have been.
“Polina. I need something from you.”
Her expression changed immediately. Not closed. Not defensive. Alert.
And there it was.
The reason I hated this.
Because she trusted me enough to listen.
The realization sat heavily in my chest.
“What kind of something?” she asked.
“An opportunity.”
She waited.
“I don’t need codes. I don’t need passwords. I don’t need you to betray anyone.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“That is a remarkably specific list.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Consulting remains the least convincing explanation for you.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“Fair.”
The wind tugged a loose strand of hair across her cheek. She tucked it back absentmindedly.
“What opportunity?”
I hesitated.
Not because I didn’t know the answer.
Because I knew exactly what it was.
“I want to see the house.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“The house.”
“Your father’s operation interests me.”
“The art collection or the security system?”
“Dangerous question.”
“It was meant to be.”
She studied me for a long moment.
“You know,” she said quietly, “sometimes I think you’re telling me the truth and lying to me at exactly the same time.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Because they were uncomfortably accurate.
“I’m trying very hard not to.”
Her expression softened, just slightly. And somehow that made it worse.
I would have preferred suspicion. It was easier to live with.
“What are you asking for?” she said.
I looked away first.
“An invitation.”
That was not the answer I’d intended on giving her, but there it was.
Not access.
Not entry.
An invitation.
Something freely given.
Something that belonged to her.
Polina was quiet.
“My father hosts a winter charity reception every year.”
I turned back to her.
“Small by his standards. Fifty guests. Maybe sixty.”
“When?”
“Next Saturday.”
The idea formed between us at the same moment.
“You could attend.”
“I could.”
“You’d have a legitimate reason to be there.”
“I would.”
Neither of us mentioned that it solved two entirely different problems.
Her gaze searched mine.
“You’re still not telling me everything.”
“No.”
“That’s an honest answer.”
“It’s the best one I have.”
For a long moment she said nothing.
Then she sighed.
“I hate that I trust you.”
The confession was so quiet I almost missed it. The sudden guilt moved through me with brutal efficiency. Because she shouldn’t. Not completely. Not yet. And yet some selfish part of me was fiercely glad she did.
“Polina...”
“Don’t.” She looked away toward the city. “Just don’t ruin it.”
The words struck deeper than anything else she’d said that night. Not because they were dramatic. Because they weren’t. She was trusting me with something fragile. And hope was infinitely more fragile than trust.
Inside, the orchestra began another piece. Guests moved past the windows in warm pools of light.
The gala continued.
The world continued.
But for a moment neither of us moved.
Then she straightened. “Next Saturday,” she said. “I’ll make sure you’re on the guest list.”
The invitation solved a problem. The operation needed access. The house provided it. Everything about the arrangement made sense. That should have been reassuring.
It wasn’t.
She held my gaze for another moment. Then she turned toward the doors.
I followed her back into the warmth of the gala and told myself I still knew exactly where the line was.
The lie was becoming harder to believe.