15. Sasha
15
SASHA
The ballroom is stunning in a way that makes my brain short-circuit. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high, arched ceilings, casting a warm golden glow over the polished marble floors. Towering floral arrangements sit on each table, the scent of fresh roses and something expensive and elusive lingering in the air.
Waiters in crisp black suits weave through the crowd, carrying silver trays of champagne. A live orchestra plays in the background, soft classical music blending seamlessly with the hum of conversation.
And then there’s the people.
High society in all its glory.
The women are practically glowing, draped in designer gowns, their hair styled in sleek, elegant waves or intricate updos that probably took three professionals and a prayer to accomplish. Diamonds glint at their throats, sapphires on their wrists, jewelry worth more than my student loans.
The men are just as polished—tailored suits, silk ties, expensive cologne. Everything about them screams old money, private jets, and bathrooms made of gold.
And then there’s me.
Standing in my perfectly fitted gown…with sneakers.
I knew skipping makeup was a mistake the second we walked in.
I can feel the eyes on me.
Some are curious.
Some are judging.
And some—the worst ones—are amused.
I tighten my grip around Damien’s arm, resisting the urge to tug on my ponytail like a nervous child.
He, of course, looks completely at ease. Unbothered. Like he owns the room.
Which, honestly? He probably does. The man could wear sweatpants in here, and people would still look at him like he belonged.
I glance up at him, trying to read his face.
He doesn’t look the least bit phased by the scrutiny.
But why would he?
This is his world.
Meanwhile, I feel like an imposter who snuck in through the back door.
I take a slow breath, but before I can dwell too much on how out of place I feel, Damien leans in, his breath warm against my ear.
“Stop that.”
I blink. “Stop what?”
“Doubting yourself,” he says simply.
I snort. “Says the man who literally dragged me out of my apartment thirty minutes ago.”
His lips twitch. “You think makeup and heels would change anything?”
I gesture subtly around the room, where women in impossibly perfect gowns glide across the floor like they belong on a movie set.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I think.”
Damien takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hands it to me before taking one for himself.
He doesn’t look away as he speaks. “You’d still stand out.”
I hesitate for a moment before taking a small sip, letting the bubbles fizz against my tongue. When I glance back up, Damien is watching me with that unreadable expression—the one that makes me feel like he sees too much.
I shift uncomfortably and mutter under my breath. “Do me a favor.”
He raises a brow. “What’s that, printsessa?”
“If I ever agree to something like this again,” I say, swirling the champagne in my glass, “remind me to at least put on mascara first.”
Damien chuckles, the sound low and indulgent, and suddenly?—
I don’t feel so out of place anymore.
I take another sip of champagne, trying to shake the feeling that I’ve wandered onto the set of a high-budget period drama, and any moment now someone is going to tell me I don’t belong here.
Damien, of course, is perfectly at ease.
One hand rests against my lower back, a quiet but unmistakable claim, while his other swirls his untouched drink in slow, deliberate movements.
I still feel like an imposter in sneakers.
“Try not to look so tense, printsessa,” Damien murmurs, his lips barely moving, but I hear the amusement in his tone.
I scowl. “I am not tense.”
“You’re gripping your champagne flute like you plan to use it as a weapon.”
I glance down at my fingers, knuckles white from clutching the stem.
Okay, maybe I’m a little tense.
Before I can fire back, a woman in a midnight-blue gown with a dangerously high slit approaches us. I don’t know who she is, but the moment I see Damien’s expression shift, I know.
There’s history here.
I feel it in the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hand on my back stills slightly but doesn’t pull away.
The woman stops in front of us, a champagne flute in one hand, the other delicately brushing back a loose strand of blonde hair.
She is stunning.
That effortless, glossy, too-put-together kind of stunning that makes me acutely aware that I’m standing here without an ounce of makeup, in sneakers, in a room where I am very much out of my depth.
She tilts her head, studying me before shifting her gaze to Damien.
“Damien,” she says smoothly, like the name tastes good on her tongue.
“Nina.” His voice is cool.
Her hair is styled in soft, glamorous waves that frame her high cheekbones, her skin smooth and perfectly luminous. She wears diamond earrings, subtle but lethal, and a matching bracelet that probably costs more than my rent for a year.
And her face?—
God, her face.
It’s the kind of beauty that doesn’t require effort. The kind that turns heads in every room she walks into, the kind that forces people to pay attention.
Her deep hazel eyes flick over me first, not in a way that’s overtly rude, but in a way that tells me she’s taking inventory.
Assessing.
Measuring.
I have no idea who she is to Damien, no clue what their history entails. But I don’t have to be a genius to recognize the familiarity in the way she says his name, the way she carries herself around him.
And more than that?—
I don’t miss the way she touches him.
It’s subtle.
A light press of her perfectly manicured hand against his forearm when she speaks. A brief, casual touch to the lapel of his jacket, like she has every right to.
She leans in slightly when she talks to him, her voice low, intimate, like they have secrets only the two of them understand.
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t.
But something hot and ugly coils low in my stomach anyway.
And I hate it.
Damien, for his part, is impassive, his responses cool and measured. If the touches bother him, he doesn’t show it.
Then, finally, he turns slightly, his hand still resting against the small of my back.
“Sasha,” he says, his voice smooth, deliberate. “This is Nina Belov. She works with the Belov Foundation.”
Belov Foundation. This is her charity event? I look up at Damien, but he’s not looking at me.
Nina tilts her head slightly, her smile polite. “We focus on education and housing for displaced families.”
So she’s a saint too. Great.
“Right.” I nod, trying not to sound like an idiot. “That’s…noble.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But it’s hard work. You know how these things go.”
I don’t, actually.
I know nothing about charity galas or elite social circles or what it’s like to work in a position where people have to respect you because of your family name.
But I nod like I understand anyway.
She glances at Damien again, smiling knowingly. “Of course, Damien has been a great supporter,” she says. “Over the years, he’s donated quite a bit to the foundation. Always so generous.”
Her fingers graze his wrist as she says it, just for a second, but it irks me.
I sip my champagne to distract myself.
Damien’s expression doesn’t change. “Charity is a good way to ensure money is spent wisely,” he says simply, his voice detached.
Nina gives a soft, tinkling laugh. “Always so pragmatic.”
There’s something beneath her tone, something light but not entirely innocent.
“But I didn’t realize you would bring a date tonight, darling,” she purrs.
That’s enough.
I decide I need to leave before I say something stupid.
I glance at Damien. “I’m going to get another drink.”
His gaze flicks to mine, something unreadable in his expression.
But he doesn’t stop me.
I turn, stepping away, my pulse quicker than it should be. Did he bring me here to make his ex jealous?
I inhale deeply, exhaling through my nose.
I don’t know what I was expecting tonight, but it wasn’t this—a beautiful, age-appropriate woman touching Damien like she had every right to.
Because she probably does.
She belongs in this world—her diamond earrings, her sleek dress, her perfect posture.
She looks like someone Damien should be with.
Someone who fits.
And I?
I am not that.
I sip my champagne, staring at the golden liquid, willing myself not to care.
“You ran away.”
I stiffen.
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
A second later, Damien steps beside me.
I keep my gaze on my drink. “I thought you were busy being charitable.”
I don’t mean for it to come out snippy, but it does.
Damien chuckles lowly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous, printsessa.”
I roll my eyes, taking another sip. “I don’t even know who she is.”
“She’s an old…acquaintance.”
I glance at him, raising a brow. “Acquaintance?”
Damien smirks, but it’s not amused. “We used to be involved,” he says, watching my reaction.
I keep my face carefully blank. “How involved?”
His eyes darken slightly. “She wanted to marry me.”
I nearly choke on my champagne. “Oh.”
He watches me for another beat before adding, “I didn’t.”
That makes something in my stomach unclench.
Not that it should matter.
I clear my throat, focusing on absolutely nothing.
“She’s more your type,” I say after a pause. “Beautiful, rich, well-connected. Looks great in a ball gown.”
Damien turns slightly, angling his body closer to mine.
His voice is low when he speaks. “You look better.”
I blink up at him, my breath catching for just a second.
Damien’s gaze lingers on me, dark and unreadable, and I feel like my skin is burning under his attention.
But before either of us can say anything else, a new voice cuts through the noise of the gala. “Damien.”
I turn, and immediately, I know this woman is important.
She isn’t as flamboyantly beautiful as Nina, but she has a presence that commands attention. Graceful. Regal. The kind of beauty that ages like fine wine and never goes unnoticed.
Her blonde hair is styled into a sleek chignon, her gown subtle but expensive, understated in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t need to prove anything.
Damien’s posture changes.
Subtly, but I notice it.
His usual relaxed arrogance straightens just slightly, his shoulders drawing back.
And then it clicks.
This is his mother.
Damien Zaitsev’s mother.
Oh God.
She glances at me, her blue eyes filling with curiosity before shifting back to Damien.
“Are you not going to introduce me?”
Damien exhales, like this is the last thing he wants to do, but he does it anyway.
“Sasha,” he says, his hand resting lightly on my back. “This is my mother, Ekaterina Zaitsev.”
Ekaterina.
Even her name sounds powerful.
She smiles at me politely. “It’s a pleasure, dear.”
I smile back, trying not to look like I’m seconds from internally combusting.
“You too,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds.
Damien’s mother doesn’t look unkind, but she definitely looks like a woman who takes stock of everything. She glances at Damien. “I must say, I’m surprised. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you with someone.”
Damien doesn’t react.
His expression is neutral.
Then she sighs softly. “Then again, I haven’t seen you at all, have I?”
Her words are gentle, but there’s something behind them.
Something pointed.
Something that makes Damien’s jaw tighten just slightly.
A flicker of emotion passes through his otherwise blank expression.
Regret? Annoyance?
I can’t tell.
For a brief second, it feels like I’ve intruded on something private, something I shouldn’t be standing in the middle of.
Then Damien shuts down.
Just like that.
His voice is calm. Unyielding. “I’ve been busy.”
His mother gives him a long look.
Then, just as quickly, her polite smile returns, like she’s used to this answer.
She turns back to me. “I do hope you enjoy the evening, Sasha. It was lovely meeting you.” And then she steps away, gliding back into the crowd with the same effortless grace she walked in with.
I exhale slowly, finally releasing the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I turn back to Damien, studying him. His expression is back to its usual unreadable coolness, but something lingers in his eyes.
Something complicated.
Something he doesn’t want to talk about.
So I don’t ask.
Instead, I just say, “You okay?”
For a second, I think he won’t answer.
Then, finally, his lips curve into a small, almost bitter smirk.
“She’s a hard woman to please,” he says lightly, but there’s something in his voice that tells me it runs deeper than that.
I don’t push.
“Wow, meeting a parent on the first date? Bit fast, don’t you think?” I joke instead.
His eyes flick to me, and for a second, I wonder if I overstepped.
Then, to my surprise, his lips twitch.
A smirk.
Small, barely there, but it’s enough to tell me I didn’t just completely ruin the moment.
“You think this is a date, printsessa?” His voice is low, amused.
I sip my champagne, tilting my head. “I mean, you dressed me up, brought me to a fancy event, introduced me to your mother…” I pause, tapping my chin. “That’s textbook dating behavior. What’s next? Meeting the family dog?”
Damien actually laughs.
He shakes his head. “If I had a dog, I think he’d like you.”
I raise a brow. “That’s a big assumption. I could be a cat person.”
Damien hums, considering. “No. You’re too chaotic to own a cat.”
“Excuse me?” I gasp, pretending to be offended. “I would make a great cat owner.”
“You can’t even make it to work on time.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Okay, fair point.
I narrow my eyes at him. “So you think I’m chaotic?”
A slow smirk. “Undoubtedly.”
I click my tongue, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable.”
I’m still buzzing from our banter, feeling lighter than I have all evening, when the music shifts. The soft hum of conversation fades as the orchestra transitions into a sweeping, elegant waltz. Couples drift onto the dance floor, moving seamlessly into position like they’ve done this a million times before.
I already know what’s coming.
Damien turns to me, his eyes flicking toward the dance floor.
“Sasha—”
But before he can finish, a new voice cuts in.
“Come on, Damien,” Nina says smoothly, reappearing like she was waiting for the perfect moment.
I stiffen.
She’s not alone.
She’s brought a small group of impeccably dressed people with her, and leading the pack is a photographer with a camera slung around his neck.
I don’t miss the way she barely glances at me.
I also don’t miss the way her hand immediately finds Damien’s arm, her fingers brushing just a little too familiarly.
Nina turns to the photographer, flashing a perfect, practiced smile.
“This is Mr. Zaitsev,” she tells him, her voice silk and sugar. “His family is one of our biggest donors.”
The photographer nods, already lifting his camera, ready to capture Damien on display.
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around my champagne flute.
I glance at Damien, half expecting him to refuse, to wave them off.
But he doesn’t.
His gray eyes flick to mine instead, as if silently asking permission.
I force my expression into neutrality, ignoring the way my stomach twists.
“Go,” I say quietly, not trusting myself to say anything else.
Damien’s jaw tightens just slightly, like he’s annoyed. But after a moment, he exhales and steps away.
He follows Nina onto the dance floor, his presence instantly commanding the space, as if he was made for moments like these.
I watch as the photographer snaps a few pictures, capturing the perfect image of Damien Zaitsev—the polished, wealthy businessman supporting a noble cause.
Then the music swells, and before I can blink, Nina slides into position with him.
They start to dance.
And I?
I sit there, watching them, feeling like an idiot.
Because she looks perfect with him.
Tall, poised, everything I am not.
And Damien?
He doesn’t miss a step.
It’s effortless, the way he moves, like he’s done this a thousand times before.
Like he knows her body well.
Like it’s familiar.
I shouldn’t care.
But God, I do.
I care way too much.
I don’t realize I’ve finished my champagne until my fingers are gripping an empty glass. I set it down and grab another from a passing waiter, downing it too fast.
Then another.
The bubbles sting my throat, but I barely notice.
Because I can’t stop watching them. Damien and Nina, gliding across the floor like they belong together. Like this is natural.
Like I’m the intruder here.
I feel stupid.
Stupid for coming here.
Stupid for wearing this dress and thinking for even a second that I fit into this world.
Stupid for believing—really believing—that he wanted me here.
Of course he didn’t.
Of course this was all about her.
Maybe he brought me to prove a point.
Maybe he wanted to see if he could still get a reaction out of her.
And God help me, it worked.
Because Nina is leaning into him, smiling, touching him like she’s entitled to.
The worst part?
He’s letting her.
I swallow hard, grabbing another drink, the alcohol buzzing through me too quickly.
I need to leave.
I need to get out of here.
I turn on my heels, setting the champagne flute down with a little too much force.
I don’t care.
I start walking, my heart pounding with every step. The crowd blurs past me, all fancy dresses and glittering jewels and a world I don’t belong in.
I reach the entrance, my breath shallow, my pulse racing.
Almost there.
Almost free.
Then—
A hand wraps around my wrist.
Firm. Unyielding.
I stop.
Slowly, I turn, my chest heaving, my heart slamming against my ribs.
And there he is.
Damien.
Standing behind me, his grip keeping me in place.
His expression?
Unreadable.
But his eyes—his storm-gray, all-consuming eyes—are locked onto mine.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs.
“What am I doing?” I echo, my voice shaky from alcohol and frustration. I pull at my arm, but he doesn’t budge. Of course he doesn’t.
Damien watches me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his goddamn eyes—look like they could swallow me whole.
“You were leaving,” he says, his tone low, almost accusing.
I scoff, yanking at my arm again. “Oh, so I need permission now?”
Damien’s jaw tightens. “Why?” he asks, voice steady, but I hear the edge beneath it.
I laugh, but it’s humorless, sharp like glass. “Are you serious?” I motion toward the ballroom, toward where Nina is still standing, watching us. Toward the people still whispering, still staring at me like I don’t belong here. “Because I don’t need to be part of whatever twisted game you and your ex are playing,” I snap.
His brows pull together, his grip loosening just slightly.
I press on, the alcohol in my blood making me reckless. “You brought me here for her, didn’t you?” I hiss. “To prove something to her? To make her jealous? What, was I just some pawn in your power play?”
Something flickers across his face, something quick and dangerous.
“I brought you here for me.”
His words hit me in the chest, unexpected and raw.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Damien steps closer, his presence overwhelming, his scent wrapping around me—woodsmoke, leather, expensive cologne, and something purely him.
“You think I care what she thinks?” His voice drops, just for me.
I glance at Nina, still watching from across the room, a glass of champagne in hand, expression unreadable.
I bite my lip, anger still simmering in my gut. “You sure as hell acted like it.”
Damien exhales through his nose, shaking his head just slightly.
“She doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “You do.”
I scoff, my body betraying me with the way it shivers at his words.
His eyes flick down, catching the movement, and his grip on my wrist tightens again.
“I—” My breath hitches. “Damien, let me go.”
His jaw clenches, his fingers twitching against my skin.
For a second, I think he won’t.
Then, finally?—
He releases me.
The moment my wrist is free, I step back, inhaling deeply, putting distance between us. I can’t think when he’s too close. I can’t breathe when he looks at me like that.
But just as I turn to leave?—
His voice stops me.
“You’re mine, printsessa.”
A chill runs down my spine.
I look back at him, at the way his gaze burns into me.
Possessive. Certain.
“I’m not,” I say, but I don’t think I believe it myself.
Damien’s eyes flick over me. “How much have you had to drink?”
I fold my arms over my chest, my pulse still skipping from his last words.
I’m not answering that.
Mostly because I’m not even sure.
I know I had one, then another, then…yeah. Enough to feel bold. Enough to feel reckless.
He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come on,” he mutters. “I’m driving you home.”
“I can get a cab,” I say stubbornly.
Damien looks down at me like I just suggested something ridiculous.
“A cab?” he repeats. “After you nearly walked out of here blind with champagne-fueled dramatics?”
I glare at him. “Oh, so now I’m dramatic?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he just shakes his head, grabs my wrist again, but gentler this time, and starts leading me toward the exit.
I could protest. I should protest.
But I don’t.
The moment I sink into the leather seat, I regret this decision.
The car smells like him.
Like woodsmoke, expensive cologne, and something purely Damien.
I fold my arms and stare out the window, determined to ignore him.
He settles into the driver’s seat, exhaling like he’s trying to stay patient.
We don’t talk until we hit the road, the streetlights casting shadows inside the car.
“You were jealous,” he says after a beat.
I scoff, turning to him. “Excuse me?”
His hands grip the wheel, but his expression is calm. Too calm.
“You saw me dancing with Nina,” he continues, like he’s stating a fact. “And you lost it.”
I turn my body toward him, bristling. “I did not lose it.”
“You drank half the bar and tried to escape.”
I grit my teeth. “I drank because I was in a room full of stuck-up people and felt out of place. Not because of you.”
Damien hums, like he doesn’t believe me.
“I don’t care who you dance with,” I add.
“Good,” he says, flicking his gaze to me at a red light. “Because the only person I wanted to dance with was you.”
My breath catches.
Heat rises up my neck, something traitorous sparking in my stomach.
I cross my legs, shifting in my seat. “You’re insufferable,” I mutter.
Damien chuckles lowly, the sound wrapping around me like silk. “You’re adorable when you’re mad.”
I whip my head toward him, my glare burning. “Do you have a death wish?”
The smirk grows. “Possibly.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but suddenly?—
He pulls over.
The car is still running, but we’re on the side of a quiet, dimly lit street.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
Damien unclips his seat belt and turns toward me, his movements slow, deliberate.
“You want to talk about what happened back there?” he murmurs.
“No,” I say too quickly, my pulse slamming into my ribs.
“Good.”
Then he reaches for me.
And suddenly, I’m kissing him.
Or maybe he’s kissing me.
I don’t know who moves first, but one second I’m fuming, the next his mouth is on mine, and nothing else matters.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine in a way that makes my stomach drop.
I gasp, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer even as I know I shouldn’t.
I can’t think, can’t breathe?—
I can only feel.
His lips move to my jaw, then down to my throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it, and Damien lets out a low, satisfied sound against my neck.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You drive me insane.”
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his suit.
“Good,” I whisper, breathless.
He growls, pulling me over the console and into his lap.
My dress rides up, exposing my thighs as I straddle him, the bulge in his pants pressing right against my core.
“Damien,” I pant, half in frustration, half in sheer need.
He smirks against my skin. “Say it again,” he murmurs, his fingers gripping my waist.
I want to.
I want to say his name over and over until it doesn’t sound real anymore.
Until it’s the only thing I know.
But then a car passes by, its headlights briefly illuminating the inside of Damien’s car.
Reality slams back into me, and I freeze.
Damien feels it immediately.
His grip on me tightens for a second, like he doesn’t want to stop. But then, with a low curse, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
I swallow hard, still clinging to his shirt, my whole body trembling.
I should tell him to take me home.
I should walk away before this goes any further.
But I don’t want to.
Not tonight.
I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze. His stormy gray eyes are locked onto mine, his pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath.
If I asked him to stop, he would.
If I told him to take me home, he’d drive me back without a second thought.
But that’s not what I want.
I lick my lips, my pulse a steady drum in my ears.
“Take me to your place,” I whisper.
Damien stills.
His grip on my waist tightens.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything.
He just watches me, his gaze searching, intense.
Then—
His jaw tics.
His hands slide from my waist to my thighs, his fingers pressing into my bare skin.
Then, finally?—
A low, dark growl.
“Put your seat belt on, printsessa.”
And just like that, the engine roars to life.