Porcelain Lies (Tarasov Bratva #1)

Chapter One

Stella

I pace between half-decorated tables, my heels loud on the marble floor of the Grand Ballroom.

Around me, volunteers hang streamers and arrange centerpieces for tonight’s charity gala, but my attention stays locked on my phone screen as I hit redial for the tenth time.

“Come on, Gianni, pick up.”

The call goes straight to voicemail again. My stomach churns. I haven’t been able to reach him all day. This isn’t like him.

The decorations for the children’s cancer benefit mock me with their cheerful colors — bright balloons and glittering stars that should lift spirits, not remind me how much could go wrong. A volunteer struggles with a banner near the stage, and I take a deep breath.

Come on, Stella.

These kids deserve better than your scattered energy.

“Need any help?” I call out, lowering my phone.

The volunteer shakes her head, finally securing the corner. “Got it, Ms. Fermont.”

I nod and check my watch again — 3:45 PM. Less than four hours until guests arrive, and my keynote speaker is MIA. Gianni had promised to deliver an inspirational speech about his commitment to funding the cause. The families coming tonight need that message of hope.

My thumb hovers over his number again.

“Everything okay?” Maria, my assistant, approaches with a clipboard.

“Gianni’s not answering.” I twist the silver ring on my right hand — a nervous habit I’ve never shaken. “He’s supposed to be here for sound check in fifteen minutes.”

The phone stays silent in my palm as I stare at the time again: 3:47 PM.

I adjust another place setting, fighting the urge to check my phone again. The crystal glasses catch the light from the chandeliers, creating tiny rainbows across the white tablecloth. I force a smile at the catering staff arranging the table numbers.

“Ms. Fermont?” One of the servers waves me over. “Should we leave space at the head table for Mr. Maranzano’s personal assistant?”

The mention of his name twists my stomach. “He… usually travels alone.” I smooth my blazer. “But maybe leave one extra chair, just in case.”

Maria rushes up with the donor placement chart. “The Hendersons want to know if they’ll be seated with Gianni. They’re considering doubling their pledge.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.” I smile tightly, praying that he will be. “Traffic from the airport, you know how it is.” But his flight touched down hours ago. I already checked the schedule. Twice.

My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up, but it’s just another text from the florist confirming delivery. The time glares back at me: 4:03 PM.

“The sound technician needs to test the microphone,” another volunteer calls out.

I wave toward the stage. “Tell him we’ll have to do it later. Our speaker is…” I glance at my phone again, “delayed.”

One more call. The rings echo in my ear before hitting voicemail. Again.

“I need some air.” I hand the seating chart back to Maria. “Can you supervise the centerpiece arrangement? Make sure they alternate the tall and short ones as we discussed.”

She nods, concern etched across her face. “Of course. Should I try calling his office?”

“No, I’ll handle it.” I’m already walking toward the terrace doors. Behind me, I hear whispers from the staff, probably wondering why I’m not more worried about my fiancé’s disappearing act.

Oh, I’m worried alright.

If they only knew the knot growing in my chest wasn’t just about tonight’s event. Gianni can sometimes be distant — his job is high pressure. But he always takes my calls. Always.

Is something wrong?

Did he miss his flight?

An accident, maybe?

God, not that!

I shake my head, pushing aside my increasingly irrational thoughts. Then, I slip into the quiet alcove near the service entrance, away from the bustle of preparations. I need to pull myself together. I never let myself get this frazzled… and over nothing. Because this is nothing.

I’m certain of it.

I am.

My fingers trace over the diamond on my left hand, remembering the night Gianni proposed. The way his eyes sparkled in the candlelight at Spago, how he’d arranged for the violinist to play our song.

“You’re my forever,” he’d whispered, sliding the ring onto my finger.

Just last week we’d toured that brownstone in Pacific Palisades, planning where we’d put the nursery. Gianni had lifted me onto the kitchen counter, kissing me as sunlight streamed through the bay windows.

“Two kids,” he’d said. “A boy and a girl.” His hands had settled on my waist, hazel eyes full of promise.

The memory warms me, but something cold slithers through my chest. That morning he’d seemed distracted, checking his phone constantly during breakfast. When I’d asked about his business trip to LA, he’d changed the subject.

No. I’m being paranoid. Gianni loves me. He wouldn’t miss this — not when he knows how much the children’s cancer foundation means to me. Not after all the work I’ve put in.

My fingertip traces over his contact photo — us laughing on the beach in Malibu, his arms wrapped around me from behind. The anxiety churning in my stomach pushes me to try one more time. I press call, holding my breath as it rings.

My steps echo through the grand foyer as I check the entrance doors for the hundredth time. Any moment now, Gianni will burst through those gleaming brass handles, arms full of white roses — my favorites. He’ll have that crooked smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Traffic was insane, tesoro ,” he’ll say, kissing my cheek. “But I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

A delivery cart rattles past, yanking me from the fantasy. I turn back to the ballroom, where Maria waves frantically from across the room.

“The projector’s acting up,” she calls out. “And the silent auction items need final pricing.”

I nod as I weave between tables to the offending projector. The tech team huddles around the temperamental equipment while I adjust bid sheets, but my eyes keep drifting to those doors.

Maybe his car broke down. He could be stuck somewhere without service. Or there was an emergency at work — those venture capital deals can be unpredictable. But he’d find a way to let me know, wouldn’t he?

“Ms. Fermont?” A volunteer holds up tangled strands of fairy lights. “Where should these go?”

“Around the stage pillars.” I demonstrate the spiral pattern with my finger, before glancing down at my screen yet again.

Alright, I’ll try one more time. Then I really need to stop acting like a hysterical girlfriend — scrap that; fiancée — and get down to work.

I hit the call button. The screen lights up — “Call Connected.” My heart leaps into my throat as Gianni’s number finally connects after hours of silence.

“Gianni, thank God—” The words catch in my throat as an unfamiliar female voice cuts through the speaker.

“Who is this?” Sharp. Cold. The hostility in her tone makes my spine stiffen.

“I’m calling for Gianni Maranzano.” My voice stays steady despite the tremor in my hands. “This is his fiancée.”

A harsh laugh crackles through the line. “His fiancée? That’s interesting, considering I’m in his bed right now.”

The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. I grab the edge of a nearby table, knocking over an empty champagne flute. It rolls across the white tablecloth but doesn’t fall.

“I don’t know who you are,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks, “but this isn’t funny. We have an important charity event tonight and—”

“Oh honey, I know all about your little party.” The woman’s voice drips with condescension. “Gianni mentioned it this morning, right before he told me how suffocating you’ve become with all this wedding planning.”

My free hand clenches into a fist. “Put him on the phone. Now.”

“He’s in the shower.” She pauses, and I hear rustling sheets. “But I’ll tell him you called. Again. And again. And again.”

The rage building in my chest surprises me with its intensity. “Listen to me very carefully. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but—”

“No games.” Her voice hardens. “Just truth. Maybe ask yourself why he’s been ‘working late’ so often. Or why he always takes calls in the other room.”

The memory of Gianni stepping onto the balcony last week during dinner, phone pressed to his ear, flashes through my mind. I push it away.

“You’re lying.”

“Check his Instagram. The private one, not the public profile he lets you see. Under ‘g.maranzano2’. Then we’ll talk about who’s lying.”

My hands begin trembling so violently I nearly drop the phone. The woman’s next words echo in my skull: “Leave my boyfriend alone.”

Boyfriend.

The ballroom spins around me as black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My legs wobble, and I stumble backward until I hit the wall. The cool marble against my spine does nothing to stop the violent shaking that’s taken over my body.

“I…” The word comes out as a whisper. I clear my throat, try again. “I don’t—”

“Understand?” She laughs, the sound like broken glass. “Let me make it simple. Gianni’s been with me for months. The ring on your finger? It’s just for show. Something about keeping his investors happy with a stable image.”

My stomach heaves. I press my palm flat against the wall, focusing on the solid surface as my knees threaten to buckle. The diamond on my left hand catches the light, sending prisms across my blazer — mocking me.

“Ms. Fermont?” Maria’s voice seems far away. “Are you alright?”

I blink several times, then nod at her mutely, hoping she’ll leave me be. I can’t answer right now. All I can do is listen to the mocking voice of the woman on the phone.

My legs give out, and I sag into the nearest chair, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself. The woman’s voice continues, each word a knife twisting deeper.

“The apartment you toured? He’s already signed the lease. For us.” She pauses, letting that sink in. “Those business trips to New York? I went with him. Check the Four Seasons reservation history — suite 1242. You’ll find my name right next to his.”

The room tilts sideways. Suite 1242 — where Gianni always insisted on staying. Said it had the best view of the city.

“Stop,” I whisper, but she continues.

“The jade pendant he gave you for Christmas? He bought the matching earrings for me.” Her voice softens with false sympathy. “Oh, and that private wine tasting in Napa last month when he was ‘stuck in meetings’? I still have the photos.”

My stomach lurches. The morning after that “business trip,” he’d kissed me goodbye, pressing a bottle of cabernet into my hands. “A souvenir,” he’d said. “From the distributor.”

My chest constricts, each breath shorter than the last. The phone slips from my trembling fingers, clattering onto the table.

“Ms. Fermont?” Maria’s voice breaks through the fog. “The caterers need—”

“Not now, Maria!” I choke out. I bolt from the chair, shoving past her. My heels catch on the carpet as I stumble toward the nearest bathroom. The door barely closes behind me before I’m retching into the toilet, my body rejecting everything — the lies, the betrayal, the months of deception.

The cold tile bites into my knees as I grip the porcelain bowl, my engagement ring clicking against the surface. The sound makes me gag again.

Pushing myself to my feet, I stumble to the wash basin and splash cold water on my face, watching droplets trail down my neck and onto my silk blouse. My mascara is smeared beneath my red-rimmed eyes, my lipstick smudged across my chin.

“Get it together,” I whisper to my reflection. “Those kids need you tonight.”

My hands still shake as I dig through my purse for concealer. The diamond catches the fluorescent light, and I yank the ring off, shoving it deep into my bag where I won’t have to look at it. The indent on my finger feels like a brand.

The bathroom door creaks open. “Stella?” Maria’s voice is tentative. “The first guests are arriving.”

My stomach clenches. Through the door, I hear the murmur of voices in the foyer, the clink of glasses, elegant laughter. Children’s laughter, too — the young patients and their families arriving full of hope for tonight’s fundraiser.

I close my eyes, steadying myself against the counter. Those families scraped together money for gala tickets, believing in our promise to fund new treatment research. They don’t care about my imploding personal life.

“I’ll be right out.” My voice comes out stronger than I feel. I reapply my lipstick with practiced precision, dust powder over the blotchy patches on my cheeks. I pull in a deep, steadying breath. I’ve dealt with upheaval before. I can do it again now.

You can do this…

The woman in the mirror transforms — shoulders back, chin lifted, professional mask firmly in place. Only my eyes give me away, but in the dimmed ballroom lighting, no one will notice.

I smooth my blazer and open the door. Maria hovers outside, clipboard clutched to her chest.

“The Hendersons are asking about Gianni’s speech,” she says carefully.

“Tell them there’s been a change in the program.” I stride toward the growing crowd. “I’ll make the keynote address myself.”

The crystal champagne flute trembles in my hand as I work my way through the crowd. Donors in designer suits and cocktail dresses mill about, their faces blurring together as I nod and smile. My chest feels hollow, each breath a conscious effort.

“Wonderful turnout,” Mrs. Henderson beams, touching my arm. “And such a beautiful venue.”

“Thank you for coming.” I smile. “The children’s ward will benefit greatly from your support.”

A small figure in a wheelchair catches my eye — Sophie, one of our young patients, her head wrapped in a bright purple scarf. She waves, and something inside me shifts. These kids don’t need to see my pain. They face enough of their own.

I crouch beside her wheelchair. “That’s a beautiful scarf. Purple’s my favorite color too.”

“Mom says I can watch the whole program if I feel strong enough.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Then we better make it worth staying up for, right?”

Maria appears at my elbow with the revised program. I scan the changes, crossing out Gianni’s name with perhaps more force than necessary. The pen tears through the paper.

“The silent auction items are ready,” Maria whispers. “But the projector’s still—”

“I’ll handle it.” I set my jaw. “Technical difficulties won’t stop us from helping these amazing kids.”

I keep my chin high as I make my way to the tech booth. Inside, my heart may be shattered, but outside I’m still Stella Fermont, event coordinator extraordinaire. The show must go on.

I grab the microphone, testing it quickly. In ten minutes, I’ll welcome these guests. I’ll tell them about our brave patients. I’ll inspire them to open their hearts — and their checkbooks.

And not one of them will know that my own world has just imploded.