Chapter Twenty-Two
KATERINA
The limousine is already waiting when I step out of The Commons. It’s black, polished like obsidian, and horribly familiar.
My grandmother always did have a flair for intimidation.
I smooth my palms down my coat, steady my breath, and climb inside.
She’s sitting in the back with the posture of a queen and the poise of a woman who was—according to rumors I was never allowed to confirm—once trained to lie, and seduce on behalf of a special organization, before she met my grandfather.
Her silver hair is pinned in a perfect twist, not a strand out of place. Her gloves are cream leather. Her brooch is sapphire. And her English, when she greets me, is smoother than the porcelain teacup waiting for us at tea time.
“Hello, my dear,” she says. “You look tired.”
I swallow hard. “It’s… opening week.”
“I know.” She says. “I watched.”
I blink. “You… watched my opening night?”
Her crimson-painted lips curve into a smile. “As if I would miss it?”
Warmth hits my chest so suddenly that it surprises me. “You watched,” I whisper again, this time to myself.
“Of course.” She waves a gloved hand dismissively. “Your arabesque line has improved. Your turns are cleaner. But your finale jump was short by two centimeters. Perhaps nerves?”
My cheeks heat. “Perhaps.” She could have found more wrong with my performance. She has a keen eye for ballet, which means she’s complimenting me in the best way she can.
The car glides toward the Fairmont—the hotel that still serves tea the exact way my grandmother expects it: boiling hot, fragrant, and accompanied by staff that understands you never clear a cup until the guest puts her napkin on the table.
We sit in the private tea salon, a room dripping with gold trim and quiet elegance. Between the heavy curtains, the crystal chandeliers, and the pianist in the corner gently playing music, it is the closest thing my grandmother has to her favorite tea house in Russia.
This is her home-field advantage.
The server pours Koporye Tea, the only tea my grandmother drinks before noon, and then leaves us alone.
My grandmother studies me for a long, heavy moment. “You’ve created quite a stir in the Popovich family household.”
The words land like a strike to the ribs.
“Your father believes you abandoned your responsibilities. Your place. Your duty.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “I didn’t abandon anything.”
“Oh?” Her voice softens in a way that’s somehow more dangerous.
“Then tell me, why are you here instead of in Moscow? You were given time to study in New York, to follow in your mother’s footsteps with the understanding that once your father found your rightful place in the family, you would return home.
Why are you married to an American hockey player instead of fulfilling your engagement contract with Maxim? ”
“I didn’t know about Maxim until Father dropped the information on me. And I was already in love with someone else,” I say quietly.
Her brows lift. “In love.”
“Yes.”
“Well.” She stirs her tea once, delicately. “That is what I am here to decide.”
My throat tightens.
Her gaze sharpens. “Your mother was a romantic, too. It made life difficult for her.”
But then her voice shifts—cooler now. Strategic.
“And tell me,” she says, “are you consummating this marriage?”
Tea nearly goes down the wrong pipe. I cough, sputter, pressing the napkin to my lips.
“G-grandmother—”
“It is a simple question. If you are lying to me, I will know. If you refuse to answer, I will assume the marriage is invalid and move to annul it.”
Blood roars in my ears.
I look down at my teacup—at last night’s memories flooding through me.
Scottie’s hands on my hips. His mouth tracing fire up my throat. The way he whispered the moment he entered me. How gentle he was when he pushed inside, slow and careful, yet confident and experienced. Checking every few seconds to make sure I wasn’t in pain.
How he held my face after, forehead pressed to mine, telling me he loved me like it was the simplest truth of his life.
My cheeks burn.
I lift the teacup to my lips to hide the blush and smile threatening to break free.
My grandmother chuckles—low, knowing. “Ahhh. I see.” She taps her spoon lightly against the china. “So you have.”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
“Then you know that I cannot condone you to be engaged to one man while married to another. And I do not condone divorce except under grave circumstances. If you have been intimate in this marriage, then an annulment is out of the question, unless either of your intentions during the marriage were made with the intention of being fraudulent to keep you here.”
A flush climbs my neck.
“Now,” she continues, “tell me about this man. This… hockey player.”
My heart warms in ways I no longer have control over.
“He’s good,” I say. “He takes care of everyone around him. His family. His teammates. Even strangers.” I smile at the thought of him.
About how everyone in Whitefish loves him.
How anyone who meets him loves him immediately.
“He sends money home every month to support his parents. He’s trying to get his father into a nerve regeneration clinical trial overseas. ”
Her eyes sharpen. “With Dr. Markov?”
“I… I think so. I’m not sure of the name.”
“Then it must be him. Markov is a Russian neurologist. Brilliant. He studied under your great-aunt’s husband.” She lifts an eyebrow. “I know him very well.”
Hope slams into me so hard my fingers tremble around my teacup. “You do?” I shift in my seat. “Do you think you could speak with him? Ask him to consider Scottie’s father for the trial that he’s about to start?”
She studies me, taking her time.
“I will consider your request. He owes me a favor,” she says slowly, “but you must do something in return.”
It seems everyone owes my grandmother a favor. She likes to collect them.
“Anything,” I say immediately.
Her lips twitch, almost a smile, almost not. “Careful, Katerina. Promising anything can be a dangerous proposition. I’ve trained you better than that.”
She sets her cup down perfectly centered on the saucer.
“I have other business in Seattle,” she says, rising from her chair with the grace she passed down to me. “I will let you know my decision about your marriage tomorrow.”
Panic shoots through my chest. “Don’t you want to meet Scottie?”
She pauses, fixes me with a look so piercing it feels like it goes straight through my ribs.
“This has nothing to do with your American husband,” she says.
“This has everything to do with you. Your place in this family. Your worth. Any man in your presence would fall in love with you. I have no question of his intentions or that he’s fallen madly in love.
You have the same presence as your mother that your father fell for in one evening at the theater,” she watches my reaction for a beat.
“The question is what your intentions are with him: did you marry him for love… or for freedom?”
“I love him,” I whisper. “Truly.”
“We’ll see.”
She turns toward the door. Her bodyguards immediately fall into step behind her.
And then she is gone.
Leaving me sitting in a gilded tearoom, heart pounding, hands shaking…
And more terrified than ever of losing the life I finally want.