Chapter 3 Champagne Collision
CHAMPAGNE COLLISION
CALLAHAN
The reception was in full swing by the time I arrived.
Laurentian Palace's ballroom had transformed from the ceremony into the reception, tables set with crystal glasses and white roses, champagne flowing like water, music shifting from classical to something with an actual beat.
People danced, laughed, performed their joy with the ease of those who'd never questioned whether happiness was real.
I stood near the bar, silk mask covering just enough of my face to blur my identity, and watched two hundred people celebrate love like it was simple.
It wasn't simple. Nothing ever was.
A woman in emerald silk drifted over, already a few drinks in, judging by how she held her glass. “God, these things go on forever, don't they?”
I smiled. “The champagne helps.”
“Does it?” She laughed, loose and unguarded. “Rebecca Ashford. Corporate law.”
“Ken Hartley.”
She launched into complaints about her firm, the merger that was falling apart, the long hours. I nodded, remembered the important bits. Her firm handled high-profile cases. She knew people.
Useful.
I excused myself after five minutes, moved through the crowd. Harrow was near the eastern wall, champagne in hand, talking to a woman in silver. I circled wide, keeping him in my peripheral vision.
A man intercepted me near a table laden with canapés. “The salmon's better than it looks. Everything else is cardboard.”
“Good to know.” I took one anyway, more for something to do with my hands.
“Thomas Dirk.” He didn't offer a handshake, just gestured with his glass toward the crowd. “Half the people here don't actually know Viktor.”
“Well now they do.”
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Though I suppose that's the point of a wedding.”
Harrow was still talking to the woman in silver, but their conversation looked like it was wrapping up.
“You should meet Dan,” Thomas continued. “He's over there arguing about the economy. Loves a good debate.”
He moved off before I could respond. I glanced back toward Harrow. He'd shifted position, now talking to a man in a silver mask near the champagne fountain.
I angled closer, stopped at a table between us. Close enough to catch fragments if they raised their voices.
“Is that canapé worth the risk?” A voice at my elbow. Male, younger, accent placing him somewhere north. He wore dark green, his mask pushed up. “Peter. And no, I don't know why I'm talking to strangers at weddings either. Occupational hazard.”
“Software?” I guessed.
“How'd you know?”
“Lucky guess.” I set the canapé down, glanced toward Harrow. “You know that bloke over there? Looks familiar.”
Peter followed my gaze. “Elliot Harrow. My firm tried to poach him two years ago. He turned us down flat. Said he preferred the independence of private practice.”
“Smart.”
“Or paranoid. Though in his line of work, probably the same thing.” Peter tilted his head. “You're doing that thing where you're working even at a wedding. I do the same thing. Bad habit.”
“Just observing.”
“Weddings are performances anyway. Everyone pretending they believe in forever.” He paused. “Sorry, that's cynical.”
“Or honest.”
Peter laughed. “Most people here are unbearable. You're actually tolerable.”
If only he knew.
Harrow moved again, toward the far side of the ballroom. I tracked him through the crowd, casual, just another guest. He stopped to talk to a woman in red. She touched his arm, laughed at something he said.
“Excuse me,” I said to Peter. “Need to find the facilities.”
“Through that corridor, second door on the left. Try not to get lost.”
I moved through the crowd. Harrow and the woman in red were still talking, but they looked close to finishing. She kissed his cheek, moved off. Harrow checked his phone, frowned, pocketed it.
A woman appeared beside me, wearing burgundy silk. “You look like you need something stronger than champagne.”
“I'm fine.”
“Everyone here says they're fine. It's a lie.” She gestured for the bartender, ordered something complicated. “Claire Montgomery. And before you ask, venture capital, which means I'm rich and bored.”
I didn't offer my name. She didn't seem to care.
“See that man over there?” She nodded toward someone in a grey suit talking to a blonde woman. “Cameron Drake. Prosecution service. Brilliant but corrupt. Takes bribes like other people take vitamins.”
My attention sharpened. “That's a serious accusation.”
“It's a fact. I know because I've paid them.” She said it casually, like discussing the weather. “Not personally. Through intermediaries. But everyone knows how it works. You want a case to go a certain way, you pay the right people.”
“You're very open about this.”
“I'm drunk and you're attractive and I don't care anymore.” She accepted her drink, took a sip. “If you want names, I can provide them. People who take money, people who provide favours, the whole ugly system. But it'll cost you.”
“What's the cost?”
“Dinner. Next week. Somewhere expensive.” Her smile turned predatory. “I like pretty men who look innocent.”
“I'll think about it.”
“You do that.” She moved off, leaving me with information I couldn't use directly and an invitation I'd never accept.
I pulled out my phone, typed the name in my notes. Cross-reference it later with Harrow's connections.
I was pocketing my phone when someone tapped crystal near the front of the room. The crowd quieted slightly, attention shifting.
Viktor stood at the centre table, grinning like he'd won something. “Before we continue the celebration, I have a surprise.” He gestured toward someone sitting beside him. “He hates speeches. Everyone knows this. But is my wedding, so he does not get a choice. Come. Say something nice.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. A man stood slowly, reluctantly, looking like he'd rather face down a firing squad.
Massive. That was my first coherent thought.
Not just tall but built like walls were built, solid and immovable. Midnight blue suit fitted across shoulders. Black mask covering just enough to hide identity but not the sharp line of his jaw or the way he carried himself.
Controlled. Deliberate. Dangerous.
And completely magnetic.
He moved to stand beside Viktor with the grace of someone who knew exactly how much space his body occupied. Picked up a glass. Stared at it like it had personally offended him.
“Viktor, you're a pain in my bloody arse. Metaphorically speaking, of course.” He said finally.
Viktor shouted something in Russian that sounded like an insult. The man's mouth curved slightly.
“Just like he said, Viktor came to London with a mission to burn everything down.” He paused, looked at Viktor with something that might have been affection.
“Then he met Sebastian and turned into this.
Sentimental. Makes speeches at weddings.
Cries at his own vows. It's embarrassing.
Deep down, he's a giant soft teddy bear.”
“I did not cry!” Viktor protested.
“You absolutely did. I was standing right there.”
The room laughed, warm and genuine. I couldn't look away. Couldn't stop watching the way his shoulders moved when he breathed, the way his hands held the glass, the way his voice wrapped around words like they mattered.
“But watching Viktor choose Sebastian,” he said, voice dropping lower, doing unspeakable things to my insides, “watching him be brave enough for this, for forever, for standing up here in front of everyone and making it real.
That's not embarrassing. That's the hardest thing any of us do.
Choosing to be happy when the world keeps taking happiness away.
Choosing someone when every instinct says it's safer alone.”
He raised his glass. “Viktor did that. And Sebastian was stupid enough to choose him back. So here's to poor life choices and the people brave enough to make them anyway.”
The room erupted. Applause, laughter, chaos. Viktor stood, pulled him into a brief hug. They exchanged words I couldn't hear over the noise.
I stood frozen near the bar, champagne forgotten in my hand.
Something about his voice had crawled inside my chest and refused to leave. Something about the way he moved had sent heat pooling low in my stomach. Something about watching him speak, genuine in a room full of performance, had made me want things I had no business wanting.
I didn't even know his name.
Just that I couldn't stop staring.
I found my focus again twenty minutes later. Harrow stood near the eastern wall, champagne in hand, talking to a man in a silver mask. I circled the room, keeping him in my peripheral vision, tracking his movements.
The man from the speech appeared near the bar, talking to someone tall in dark red. He caught me looking once, held my gaze for two seconds longer than necessary, then turned away.
My stomach did something complicated.
I forced myself to focus. Harrow. The investigation. The reason I was here.
Harrow excused himself and moved toward a corridor that led deeper into the palace. Private areas. Off-limits.
I waited thirty seconds, then followed.
The corridor was quieter. Music faded behind thick walls. Portraits lined the walls, dead royals watching. Harrow turned left, stopped at the third door on the right. Knocked twice, paused, knocked once more.
Pattern. Signal.
The door opened. I pressed against the wall, listened.
“You're late.” Male voice, irritated, aristocratic.
“I'm exactly on time. You're impatient.” Harrow's voice, smooth. “Do you have it?”
“Sealed and verified. Three judges.”
I pulled the recording device from my jacket, pressed it against the wall, keeping it in my hand as I listened. The conversation was muffled but audible. Enough for later.
I was backing away when I turned and collided with a wall of muscle.
Not a wall. A man.
The man from the speech.
Up close, he was unfairly attractive. Broad shoulders, trim waist, hands that looked like they could snap bone without effort. Pale eyes tracking me through his mask.