Chapter 14 Dante
DANTE
We’re gathered in the front hall—my father in his chair, Irina and the uncles talking over last-minute details, Liam fussing with a cuff link that never quite lines up. Everyone is dressed for Maksim’s dinner, everyone except the woman who’s supposed to be on my arm.
My father glances at the stairs, then at me. “Isn’t your wife coming?”
I hesitate. Truth is, I’m not sure. She’s been quiet since breakfast, vanished up to her room, door closed, no sound. Part of me expects her to dig in, refuse the invitation just to prove she can. Part of me almost respects it.
Liam elbows me. “Don’t look so worried,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
I start to answer, but then I hear footsteps—measured, steady—on the staircase. I look up.
She’s there, coming down slow and composed, one hand on the rail. Silk, cut on a bias, clinging in all the places red is meant to, hair pinned back, eyes sharp as glass. For a moment, the whole room seems to pause.
Anyone who ever called her plain is blind. There’s nothing plain about the way she moves, or the way everyone turns to look like something’s shifted in the gravity of the house.
Conversation stills, just for a heartbeat. She keeps her gaze steady, chin level, one hand lightly on the banister as if she owns every step. For a moment, the house looks smaller around her.
She meets my eyes and holds them.
My father lets out a low, pointed hum. “The dress is shorter than I remember,” he says, almost to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear.
Adriana doesn’t hesitate. She looks my father dead in the eye, her chin just slightly raised. “Maybe your memory’s slipping. Would you like to compare notes with your son?”
His mouth tightens, but he lets it pass. “Good,” he says, tapping his watch. “Let’s not be late.”
I offer my arm. She hesitates just long enough to remind everyone in the room it’s her decision, then rests her hand on mine—cool, steady.
We step outside, the cold air biting, the car waiting at the curb. She’s silent at first, her hand light on my arm, the red dress still catching in my peripheral vision. We make it to the car, and just as I’m about to open the door for her, she glances down at herself.
“Your dad left me the dress, didn’t he?” Her voice is flat, not a question so much as a challenge.
I meet her eyes. “You didn’t have to wear it.”
She gives a short, humorless laugh. “Your family is trying to humiliate me.” She doesn’t even bother to soften it, or look away. There’s no shame in her, just blunt anger.
I don’t deny it. I can’t. For a second, I wish I could tell her none of it matters, that she could have worn anything, or nothing, and they’d still find a way to make her the spectacle.
But she’s already slipping into the car, chin high, defiant. And I know, as I follow her in, that the only person in this house who understands what it means to survive humiliation is sitting right beside me.
The door shuts behind us and the driver pulls away, city lights and old stone blurring past the windows. Adriana sits rigid at my side, her arms folded, eyes fixed on the glass like she’s counting every mile away from this house.
For a while, neither of us says anything. The silence is tight, but it isn’t empty.
She breaks it first. “It’s not about the dress, you know.”
I glance over. “No?”
She shakes her head. “It could’ve been anything. They just want me uncomfortable. To remind me I don’t belong.” She picks at the edge of the silk, mouth set.
She’s not looking for comfort, just naming things for what they are.
“What do you know about the Romanovs?” Her tone is casual but there is intent to it.
I cock my head. “I assume you’d know better, since they’re an old family like yours.”
“I haven’t been in the city in a while, in case you don’t remember,” she reminds me.
I shrug. “There’s nothing much to know about them except that they’re pricks.”
She snorts. “Right.”
I frown. That sounded like a slight, but she doesn’t push it and neither do I.
“There’s just one thing you need to know,” I say leaning in, feeling her shiver. “I don’t like them.”
“Got it,” she says softly without meeting my gaze.
We ride the rest of the way in silence, headlights threading through the dusk, the city gathering itself for night. When the car stops in front of Maksim’s building, I turn to her. “Ready?” I ask.
She nods, jaw tight. “I have to be.”
I push open the door, step out, and offer my hand. She takes it, her fingers cool but steady, her eyes holding mine for a second longer than they need to.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“You looked them in the eye,” I say. “That’s more than most people do.”
The building glows gold and glass, high above the city—one of those places you can only enter if your name is on the right list. We step inside and a rush of warmth hits us, the low hum of a hundred voices, laughter bouncing off marble floors and cut crystal.
It’s a ball, not just a dinner. Maksim never does anything by halves.
Everywhere, there are people in tuxedos and sequined gowns, moving beneath chandeliers bright as new money.
Waiters in white jackets circle with trays of champagne, small talk sparkles and flares, and someone’s quartet plays soft and quick near a wall of glass.
Then I see Maksim, surrounded by old men in black suits, his father at his side. He glances up, and the expression that crosses his face isn’t just polite; it’s genuine surprise.
“Dante,” he says, but his attention flicks right to Adriana. “You clean up better than you did in school, Petrova.”
She laughs, soft and genuine, and for a second the tension in her shoulders lets go. “You’re one to talk,” she shoots back.
Maksim’s father, a heavyset man with the same eyes, claps her on the back and leans in, voice full of real warmth. “It’s good to see you, Adriana. Been too long since a Petrova graced one of these floors.”
I can feel how easily she fits here, how the Ivanovs want her close. It does something to me, watching them welcome her with open arms.
Then Maksim’s father says, “Will Julianne be joining us later?”
The question hangs, awkward and unwanted. Adriana’s jaw tightens, but she says nothing. The space between them turns brittle.
Maksim, quick as ever, nudges his father. “Let’s not scare Adriana off before the wine’s even poured, Papa.” He gives her an easy smile, the kind meant to smooth over everything.
She recovers quickly, the mask dropping back into place. “Someone has to keep you in line, Maksim.”
He laughs and offers her his arm for the dance floor, but she shakes her head. “Maybe later,” she says, and turns to me.
I feel a flicker of jealousy as Maksim lingers a second too long, but I keep it buried.
“Sorry. My dad’s memory isn’t how it was,” he says, gentle but clear. “He has dementia. He doesn’t remember the whole deal with Julianne.” He looks at Adriana, then at me. “I’m afraid I learned about it too late as well.” His gaze holds a second longer. “Or I would have been at your wedding.”
The word lands like a bruise. Wedding. I watch Adriana instead of him. Her glass doesn’t shake. Her breaths are even. Only her eyes give away the hit before she tucks it out of sight.
I nod once. “Understood.”
Maksim’s father pats Adriana’s hand, oblivious now, already smiling at someone waving from across the room. Maksim turns back to us.
“Let me get you both a drink,” he says.
“We’re fine,” I tell him.
Adriana answers with a smile that looks almost real. “I’ll take some water.”
“Of course.” He signals a server and it’s in her hand in seconds. The room bends toward him when he moves. He knows it. He also knows I see it.
Maksim eases his father toward the far side of the room, the crowd folding around them. The music swells and settles. For a breath, it’s quiet where we stand.
Then my father arrives.
Sergei Volkov rolls up in his chair, an aide a step behind, a woman keeping pace at his side. Silk, perfume, a smile that expects a welcome before it asks.
“Dante,” my father says, pleased. “An old friend wanted to say hello.”
She’s on me before I can answer, arms around my neck, quick and practiced. “There you are,” she says, planting a bright mark near my collar. “I blink and you get married.”
Adriana lifts one brow. It lands better than a speech.
“Larisa,” the woman says, turning to Adriana while keeping a hand on my arm. “Family friend.”
“Adriana,” my wife replies, calm. “New spouse.”
Larisa laughs. “Dante and I go way back. Summers on the coast. I used to keep him out too late.”
“I can see you came prepared,” Adriana says, glancing at the lipstick. “Color suits you.”
Larisa reaches up to smudge it with her thumb. “Oops.”
Adriana opens her clutch and offers me a folded handkerchief. “Try this. I would hate for anyone to think you found the dessert table early.”
“Thank you,” I say, dabbing the mark away.
My father watches, measuring. “Larisa is hosting a supper next week,” he tells me, voice mild. “You should go.
Adriana smiles at him as if he’s commented on the weather. “We do like old friends,” she says. “They’re so consistent.”
Larisa tilts her head. “May I borrow him for a dance?”
“Of course,” Adriana says. “Right after mine.”
Larisa blinks. “After?”
“After,” Adriana repeats, still pleasant.
A small, bright silence. Larisa’s smile thins. My father gives the aide a nod and the chair turns, carrying him on, Larisa swept along beside him toward a safer conversation.
I look at Adriana. She’s unruffled, red dress catching the light, eyes steady.
We move to the dance floor, her hand still tucked in the crook of my arm. The noise of the room presses in, a hundred conversations turning our way.
She glances up at me, eyes sharp. “So, who is Larisa? Are you planning to dance with her next?”
I look over her head, catching a glimpse of Larisa laughing too loudly near the champagne tower. “She’s an old family friend.”
Adriana’s mouth quirks. “That didn’t answer my question.”
I pause, meet her gaze. “Do you care if I do?”
She studies me for a second, her face unreadable. “Should I?”
“That depends,” I say. “Would it bother you?”
She shrugs, a little too casually. “I guess that depends if you want it to.” Her answer is cool, but there’s a spark behind it. She doesn’t look away.
I let out a breath, a smile tugging at my mouth. “No. I’m not dancing with her.”
She just nods, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving me a grade, like I passed a test. “Good,” she says, her voice soft, just for me. “Because I’d hate to see you waste your time.”
We finish the dance pressed close, the room spinning away, and as the last note lingers, she doesn’t move to leave my arms.
“I suppose you dance well enough,” she teases.
I lean in, mouth near her ear. “That’s good. I only want to dance with you.”
She looks up, and I swear I see a flash of softness before her eyes turn wary again, back to business, back to the next move in this glittering, dangerous room.
But for a moment, it was just the two of us—and I don’t want it to end.