Chapter Six
Stella
God, what am I doing?
It’s sheer insanity and I know it. But I’m in too deep to back out now. And damn it, I don’t want to.
The maitre d’ sweeps forward as we enter, bowing slightly to my companion. No names exchanged, just a subtle nod of recognition. I try not to fidget with my clutch as we follow him past tables of Los Angeles elite dining under sparkling crystal chandeliers.
“Your usual table, sir,” the maitre d’ murmurs, leading us to a secluded alcove with plush velvet seating and ornate wood paneling.
I slide into the curved booth, hyperaware of how my companion’s presence fills the space. The lighting here is softer, more intimate than the main dining room. Fresh orchids grace the table, their delicate petals catching the warm glow.
“ Spasibo ,” he says, the Russian word rolling naturally off his tongue. The maitre d’ disappears with another bow.
I haven’t even opened the menu when a waiter materializes with an ice bucket and bottle. The label catches the light — vintage Dom Pérignon. My mysterious dinner companion doesn’t consult me, just nods his approval as the waiter presents the bottle.
The gentle pop of the cork seems to echo in our private corner.
Crystal flutes appear, the champagne flowing golden in the dim light.
I watch the bubbles dance upward, trying to process how I ended up here — in this temple of luxury with a stranger who speaks my native tongue when just hours ago, my world imploded.
“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass. His dark eyes hold mine, and something electric passes between us.
“New beginnings,” I echo, taking a quick sip to hide my nerves.
He raises his glass to his lips, drinking deeply before sitting back in his seat. “So,” he begins, “you organized the event tonight?”
I nod quickly, relieved that he’s guiding the conversation into safe territory. “It’s one of our most important fundraisers.”
“A big responsibility,” he murmurs, his eyes on me.
I nod again, then stop myself, trying not to look too jittery. Which isn’t easy, because I am. “The event supports children with serious illnesses,” I explain, warming to the topic. “We partner with local hospitals to bring joy to families going through unimaginable struggles.”
His intense focus makes my skin tingle. He doesn’t just nod politely like most donors — he listens , asking thoughtful questions about our programs and impact metrics.
“How did you become involved?” His voice is deep, resonant.
“I started volunteering at hospitals during college. There was this little girl…” I pause, remembering her bright smile despite everything. “She changed my whole perspective on what matters.”
As I speak, I notice more details about him. The way his broad shoulders fill out his clearly bespoke suit. How his hands — strong but elegant — cradle his champagne glass. A small scar above his right eyebrow catches the light when he tilts his head. It’s hard to take my eyes off of him.
“You speak from experience,” he says softly. Not a question.
Before I can respond, our waiter approaches with understated grace. “Are you ready to order, sir? Madam?”
The spell breaks, and I realize I haven’t even glanced at the menu.
I watch, mesmerized, as he speaks to the waiter in fluid Russian. The familiar cadence of my childhood language washes over me, bringing back memories of family dinners in St. Petersburg. His accent is pure Moscow — cultured, refined.
“ Beluga ikra ,” he orders, among other dishes I can’t quite catch. The waiter nods efficiently, scribbling notes.
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” I say, half-teasing.
His lips curve. “Trust me?”
The question carries weight beyond our dinner choices. I meet his gaze, finding myself nodding.
Minutes later, the first course arrives — a mother-of-pearl spoon nestled beside black pearls of caviar on ice. My mouth waters at the sight. It’s been years since I’ve had proper Russian caviar.
“Like this.” He demonstrates, scooping a small amount onto a blini. His hands move with unusual grace for a man as he adds a touch of crème fra?che.
I mirror his movements, bringing the bite to my lips. The caviar bursts against my tongue — briny, rich, decadent. A small moan escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes darken. “Good?”
“Divine,” I breathe, reaching for another bite. The familiar taste breaks something loose inside me. My shoulders relax, and I find myself leaning forward slightly.
“Tell me more about your work,” he says, pouring more champagne.
“I love it.” I take another sip of champagne, feeling warm and lighter than I have all day. “It feels good to do something that has real value, you know?”
His fingers brush mine as he passes the caviar, sending electricity up my arm. “Indeed, it does.”
The caviar gives way to a parade of dishes that transport me back to family dinners from my childhood — tender pelmeni swimming in butter, perfectly seasoned stroganoff, and delicate blini that melt on my tongue.
Each bite unlocks memories I’ve kept locked away since our family fled Russia.
It suddenly occurs to me that it’s been hard to hide my roots for so long.
All the years of speech lessons to get rid of the accent. I barely think of lineage anymore.
“The chef captures it perfectly,” I say, dragging a piece of black bread through the stroganoff’s rich sauce. “It’s like heaven.”
He pours crystal-clear vodka into delicate glasses. The bottle sweats with frost, and I recognize the premium label — one my father still saves for special occasions.
“ Na zdarovye ,” he says, raising his glass.
“ Za zdarovye ,” I echo, clinking my glass with his. The vodka slides down smooth as silk, spreading warmth through my chest.
“You drink like a proper Russian,” he observes, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
I take another bite of pelmeni, savoring the tender meat filling. “I… I watched a lot of action movies growing up, I guess. Um… I’m a big Dolph Lundgren fan…” I improvise. Talking about our past has always been forbidden.
“Dolph Lundgren?” He quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah. You know… Rocky? With um… Sylvester Stallone?”
God, I’m an idiot.
“Ah. Yes.” He nods. “He’s Swedish.”
Oh, geez.
“Really?” I squeak.
He chuckles, and the sound is like a warm wave that raises the tiny hairs on my arms. “This is not a test, krasivaya .”
I snort-laugh, the tension dissipating, and his lips twitch up into a smile that is mesmerizing.
God, he’s hot.
He refills our glasses without comment. The vodka has begun to soften the edges of everything — the lighting seems warmer, the velvet booth more embracing. Even the weight of Gianni’s betrayal feels distant, dulled by good food and better company.
“Try this.” He spoons golden fish roe onto my plate. “The chef imports it directly from the Caspian.”
I close my eyes as the delicate eggs burst against my palate. When I open them again, there’s an intensity to his expression that makes my breath catch. The vodka hums in my blood now, making everything feel more immediate, more intense. His presence across the table feels like a physical touch.
I reach for my water glass, needing something to do with my hands. Our fingers brush as he passes the bread basket, and that simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm.
I catch myself leaning forward, drawn into his orbit like a magnet. The vodka has painted everything in warm, hazy strokes, but his face remains crystal clear — those dark eyes, the slight curl at the corner of his mouth when he’s amused.
“So, you’re telling me you’ve never tried ukha made properly?” He shakes his head in mock dismay. “That’s practically criminal.”
“Is that so?” I prop my chin on my hand, closer than I should be. “And I suppose you’re an expert?”
“I caught the fish myself at my grandmother’s dacha. The secret is the vodka.”
“The secret to everything tonight seems to be vodka.” The words slip out before I can catch them, playful and dangerous.
He leans in slightly, matching my posture. “And is that a complaint?”
“Not at all.” I take another sip, holding his gaze over the rim of my glass. “Though I’m starting to think you’re trying to get me drunk.”
“Never.” His eyes dance with amusement. “I’m introducing you to proper Russian hospitality.”
“Mmm. Very hospitable.” I drag my finger along the rim of my glass, watching his eyes track the movement. The air between us feels charged, electric.
“You’re different than I expected,” he murmurs.
“Oh? And what did you expect?”
“Someone more…” He pauses, considering. “Reserved. Professional.”
I laugh, surprising myself with how genuine it sounds. When was the last time I laughed like this? “Disappointed?”
“Intrigued.” The word rolls off his tongue like silk, and my stomach does a little flip.
God, what am I doing? I should be home crying over Gianni, wallowing in my misery, not flirting with a mysterious stranger in a fancy restaurant. But something about him makes me feel alive, awakened. The way he looks at me — like I’m fascinating, like every word I say matters — it’s intoxicating.
His hand moves with casual grace as he signals the waiter, not even glancing at the wine list before ordering another bottle of Dom Pérignon. The first one sits empty between us, testament to how long we’ve been talking.
I catch glimpses of his watch as he gestures — a Patek Philippe that I know is worth more than my car.
The restaurant’s soft lighting catches the platinum, making it gleam.
Everything about him speaks of money and power, yet he wears it like a second skin, without the flashy ostentation I’ve grown used to seeing in LA’s elite.
When the fresh bottle arrives, he handles it himself rather than letting the waiter pour. His movements are precise, elegant. The champagne cascades into my flute, golden bubbles dancing upward.
“To unexpected meetings,” he says, his voice lower, more intimate than before.