Chapter Three
Stella
The woman’s venomous words still echo in my mind, replaying on a loop no matter how hard I try to focus on the event preparations around me.
“Leave my boyfriend alone.”
Boyfriend. Gianni is her boyfriend. Not my fiancé, not really. I’m just a… business prop. The realization knocks the air from my lungs.
My trembling hands fumble with the clipboard as I try to double-check the catering order.
The sound of approaching voices makes me jerk my head up, and I force a smile onto my face as a group of donors enters the venue.
I straighten my posture, willing my legs to stop shaking as I greet them with practiced charm.
“Welcome, thank you all so much for being here today.” I gesture to the colorful decorations and the smiling children playing in the corner. “We’re so grateful for your support. Please, take a look at the board for your seating arrangements.”
The donors murmur their approval, already reaching for the champagne flutes a server offers. I excuse myself, clutching the clipboard to my chest as I slip away to a quiet corner. Gianni’s face flashes in my mind, his warm hazel eyes crinkling as he smiled at me, his strong arms pulling me close.
How could he do this to me?
As the foyer empties and guests filter into the ballroom, I find a dimly lit corner and sink down onto a plush armchair, my head falling into my hands.
The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over, trailing down my cheeks.
I should have known something was wrong.
Gianni’s distant behavior, the way he’d been evasive about our wedding plans.
I shake my head, cursing myself for being so blind.
“God, I’m such a fool, Boyana,” I whisper into the silence. A picture forms, blurred at the edges, as I visualize the face of my childhood companion. The sister I’d always imagined I had.
“Now isn’t the time to feel sorry for yourself,” her voice floats back from the recesses of my mind.
“How am I supposed to get through this?” I breathe out.
“The way you always do. You’re strong, Stella. Pull yourself together.”
I rub my eyes, wishing I felt as sure of that fact.
I’m probably too old for an imaginary friend, but old habits die hard. And tonight’s circumstances are tougher than usual.
A gentle hand on my arm makes me jump guiltily. “Stella? Are you alright?”
I hastily wipe at my eyes, looking up to see one of the event volunteers standing over me, her brow creased with concern.
“I’m fine, I—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I just needed a moment.”
She nods sympathetically. “Take all the time you need. Is there anything I can get you? Water, perhaps?”
I manage a weak smile. “No, thank you. I’ll be right back out.”
As she walks away, I take a shuddering breath, willing my racing heart to slow.
I can’t fall apart, not here. Not now. These children are counting on me, and I refuse to let them down.
Squaring my shoulders, I push myself up from the chair and head back toward the main event space, Gianni’s betrayal temporarily pushed to the back of my mind.
I weave between clusters of donors, my lips curved in a practiced smile as I make small talk about donation tiers and program initiatives. My body moves on autopilot while my mind splinters.
“He played us both, didn’t he?” Boyana’s voice cuts through the chatter in my head.
“Not now,” I whisper under my breath, nodding at something a donor just said about tax write-offs.
“You always choose the wrong ones, sestrichka. Remember that boy in high school who stood you up at prom?”
I excuse myself from the conversation with the donor and grab a fresh glass of water, my fingers trembling around the stem.
“This is different. I thought… I really thought he was the one.” I pause. “Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he never meant to—”
“…Trip and land with his dick in another woman?”
“God, that’s a horrible image.” I try not to groan.
“Men like Gianni don’t change, Stella. They just get better at lying.”
A waiter passes with appetizers, and I instinctively reach for one before pulling my hand back. Stress eating won’t help, not now.
“You’re better than this,” Boyana insists. “You don’t need him.”
“But I trusted him.” My voice catches, and I quickly turn it into a cough when a nearby guest glances my way. “We were planning a future together.”
“Plans built on lies will always crumble.”
The string quartet starts playing a familiar melody — the same one Gianni and I danced to at the charity gala where we first met. My chest tightens as the memory surfaces: his confident smile, the way he twirled me across the dance floor, how safe I felt in his arms.
“He never deserved your trust,” Boyana’s voice grows gentle. “Deep down, you knew something wasn’t right.”
I press my lips together, fighting back fresh tears. She’s right — there were signs I chose to ignore. The private calls, the extended trips. The way he’d change the subject whenever I brought up wedding venues.
“He was never going to marry you. You’re a fool if you thought so.” It’s Boyana again, her voice reverberating around my head.
“Stop it!” I clench my fists, ignoring the odd stares that have turned my way. “Just leave me alone.”
“Suit yourself.”
The voice switches off abruptly, and I’m left feeling oddly empty.
And then a memory hits me. I’m 10 again, sitting at our formal dining table in St. Petersburg, the heavy silverware gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Uncle Igor’s face is flushed from too much vodka, his words slurring as he points his fork at my father.
“Tell her about Boyana,” he says, sauce dripping onto the pristine tablecloth. “She deserves to know about her sister.”
The room goes deadly quiet. Mother’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.
Father’s face turns a shade of purple I’ve never seen before. “Get out,” he hisses, rising from his chair. “You’re drunk.”
“The girl in the photograph,” Uncle Igor continues, ignoring my father’s warning. “The one you gave away—”
The crash of my father’s fist against the table makes the dishes jump. “I said get out!”
I shrink in my seat, watching my dad grab Uncle Igor by his collar and drag him toward the door. Mother’s crying now, silent tears streaming down her face.
“Ask them about the hospital records!” Uncle Igor shouts as my father shoves him out. “Ask about—”
The door slams shut, cutting off his words. When Dad returns, his hands are shaking.
“There is no Boyana,” he says, his voice ice-cold. “Your uncle is sick in the head. We never speak of this again.”
But I’d seen the photograph he mentioned. A baby girl with my mother’s eyes, tucked away in father’s study drawer…
“Ms. Fermont?”
I blink, our old dining room in St. Petersburg dissolving into the present. One of the event coordinators stands before me, clipboard in hand. “The silent auction is about to begin. We need you to make the opening announcement.”
“Right, of course.” I straighten my blazer, pushing away the echoes of that night. The ballroom buzzes with conversation and clinking glasses. Children’s artwork lines the walls, bright splashes of hope against cream-colored paint.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, my professional mask sliding back into place.
I move through the crowd, focusing on the artificial details to keep my mind occupied. Mrs. Abercrombie’s too-tight facelift makes her perpetual smile look painted on. Richard Maxwell’s hair plugs catch the light at odd angles. The Prescott twins’ matching nose jobs still haven’t quite settled.
My mother used to say you could judge the wealth of a room by counting the original noses. Right now, I count exactly three.
A flash of gold catches my eye — a woman’s statement necklace that probably cost more than my yearly rent. Her diamonds glitter as she laughs, head thrown back to showcase the fortune draped across her throat. These people wear their wealth like armor, thinking it makes them untouchable.
Just like Gianni does.
Did.
My stomach lurches. I grab a champagne flute from a passing server, not to drink but to have something to do with my hands. The bubbles rise and fall, hypnotic in their steady climb to the surface. Each one reminds me of a promise he made, bursting just as easily.
“Looking pretty rough there, sis.”
I freeze at the familiar voice. Nick materializes beside me, his usual disheveled self somehow managing to look both expensive and unkempt in what I recognize as one of Gianni’s old suits. The sight of it makes my chest tight.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, glancing around to make sure none of the donors have noticed him. The last thing I need is my brother getting drunk and causing a scene at my biggest event of the year.
“I’m on the guest list. I’m a donor, remember.” He frowns at me. “What’s up with you?”
“I’m fine,” I snap, turning away from Nick’s scrutiny. “Just tired from organizing everything.”
“Bullshit.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve been crying. And where’s lover boy? Thought he was supposed to be here playing supportive fiancé.”
My hand tightens around the champagne flute. “Don’t.”
“Come on, Stells. Your makeup’s smeared and you’re shaking like a leaf.” Nick gently pries the glass from my grip before I can crack it. “What happened?”
The genuine concern in his voice — so rare from my usually self-absorbed brother — makes my carefully constructed walls start to crumble.
“He’s…” My voice catches. I swallow hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “He’s been seeing someone else. I just found out when she answered his phone.”
Nick’s face darkens. “That… son of a bitch! The wedding’s just around the corner.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up. “Apparently, I was just convenient. Good for his image at charity events.” The tears start flowing again, and I hastily wipe them away. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
“Hey.” Nick pulls me into a corner, shielding me from prying eyes. “You’re not an idiot. He’s the idiot.”