Chapter 18 - Fyodor
I had seen her furious and defiant, and I had even seen her with her hands covered in needles and fabrics while she was in a creative rage.
But I had never seen her like this. The bedroom door opened slowly, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The dress fell like liquid midnight against her skin, silken and backless, the neckline sharp but elegant.
It moved with her instead of against her.
The emerald earrings she had chosen caught the light each time she tilted her head.
Her hair was swept back loosely, exposing the delicate line of her throat.
The white and gold mask rested in her hand. She looked untouchable yet painfully real at the same time. I stood in the living room in a black tuxedo, mask already in place, cufflinks glinting faintly under the chandelier. She paused when she saw me.
I could see that she was neither shy nor uncertain but was simply assessing me.
“You certainly do clean up well,” she said, voice calm but eyes curious.
“So you approve the tux?” I asked.
“It’s predictable, but I do like it on you. It is clearly custom-made, and you have everything a man needs to fill out a suit.”
“And do you like the dress?”
She turned slightly, letting the fabric shift along her hips. “What do you think?”
She stepped closer, sliding the mask into place. The gold traced her cheekbones perfectly, and for a moment, we simply looked at each other. There were no guards around us and no walls between us. Just a man and a woman dressed for something almost ordinary.
“It seems to me as if you love it,” I whispered.
“I do,” she whispered back, a smile dangling on her red ruby painted lips.
The elevator ride down was silent, but not strained.
Her hand brushed mine once, accidentally, and neither of us moved away immediately.
The car door was opened for her downstairs, and she slipped inside gracefully, the dress folding around her knees.
I followed inside from the other side, and the city blurred past as we drove.
Streetlights streaked across the tinted windows.
“You’ve been to many of these?” she asked.
“Not that many.”
“Do you enjoy them?”
“No.” She glanced sideways at me at my answer, a curious smile on her face.
“Then why do you even go?”
“Back in Russia, I mostly knew people and did not always want to say no to invitations. Here, it is more about networking.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.” She leaned back against the seat and looked ahead on the road before us.
“I used to love them,” she admitted.
“Masquerades?”
“Not just masquerades. Everything really. Galas. Fashion shows. Any excuse to wear something dramatic and pretend the world wasn’t violent even when I was surrounded by blood and guns and war.”
“And now?”
“Now I know better than to believe that a pretty dress and a pretty mask and pretension can remove me from the life I have been born in. No matter how much I try to deny my reality, it can never change me or my family, and the chaos that surrounds me and always will.”
I watched her reflection in the glass, knowing exactly what she meant. She had never had a choice in the matter.
“You can still pretend for a few hours,” I said and she tilted her head slightly as if contemplating.
“Is that what you do as well, behind the mask? Pretend?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you were doing the night we met?”
“I was.”
She smiled faintly.
“I suppose I’ll find out tonight how good I can be at this.”
The venue was an old restored ballroom overlooking the water.
Chandeliers hung low, casting warm gold across polished marble floors.
Strings played softly near the far wall.
Guests moved in clusters of silk and tailored suits, faces hidden behind ornate masks.
I was on neutral ground, but I could sense eyes all around us.
I was sure the Chernykhs would also have eyes out since they were still looking for Elisse.
However, Viktor had told me that the Chernykh networks had gone silent for the past few days.
Even our best intelligence was unable to track their movements or routes, which almost made it feel as if they had deleted their entire carbon footprint.
It felt like the calm before the storm.
I ignored my thoughts and focused on Elisse, my hand settling lightly at the small of her back as we entered.
She didn’t flinch or tense but instead leaned into it slightly.
Eyes turned as we stepped inside, some out of curiosity and speculation, but others could very well be out of recognition, too.
Even with our masks, it was never safe. She moved like she belonged there. Because she did.
“Do you miss it?” I asked quietly as we paused near the champagne table.
“What?”
“Being admired.”
She laughed softly.
“I’m still being admired.”
“Yes.”
“But you mean something else.”
“Yes.”
She considered that.
“I miss designing more than I miss the attention,” she said finally. “The attention was noise. The creation was real.”
“You always wanted to design?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Why twelve?”
“My mother took me to Milan. I saw a runway show. It was chaos backstage: pins, fabric, screaming stylists. But when the model stepped out, it felt like magic and immediately made me want to become a part of that world. Initially, my mother thought I wanted to be a model, but I never wanted to be on the runway; I wanted to be behind it. For me, what was magical was the two seconds before the model walked forward and the designer stood there admiring the dress they had created and the vision they had brought to life. It gives me a rush.”
She glanced at me.
“I wanted to create something that could change how someone felt in their own skin.”
“You have already done that with some of your previous work.”
“You’ve seen my work?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before the masquerade.”
Her brows lifted at my admission.
“You researched me? That is invasive,” she said, but smiled despite herself.
“And you?” she asked. “What did you want when you were twelve?”
I almost said something dismissive, but tonight felt different.
It felt as if I could be honest without it being too much, and no matter what I said, she would listen and understand.
I had never felt closer to her than tonight, as if we were no longer standing on opposite ends of the stadium but playing beside one another. One team.
“At twelve,” I said slowly, “I think I simply wanted silence.”
Her gaze sharpened at my reply.
“Silence?”
“My father believed volume equaled authority, so he shouted often. At my brother. At my mother. At the walls.”
“And you?”
“I learned to speak quietly, and that made me powerful.”
“I have noticed that you never ever shout. Is it because of your father and your childhood?” she asked.
“A part of it, yes. But I have come to realize that I don’t have to shout for people to listen to me.”
The music shifted slightly, the tempo slowing, and I extended my hand towards her. “Dance with me.”
She studied it for a second and then placed her fingers in mine.
The first touch felt different tonight. There was less friction and more awareness.
We moved to the center of the floor, and my hand settled at her waist while her palm rested against my shoulder.
The music carried us into rhythm, and she moved naturally, fluid and controlled.
“You are really good at this,” she murmured.
“So are you.”
“It’s different for me. I was forced to practice with suitors.”
“Did you like them?”
“Some of them, yes, but most of them were rather predictable.”
“Am I predictable?”
“No,” she laughed before suddenly turning serious. “What are you afraid of?”
The question caught me off guard, but I thought for a few seconds before answering.
“Losing control of myself. In work, life, love, anything,” I answered honestly, just as her fingers tightened slightly against my shoulder.
“I’m afraid of being swallowed,” she said quietly.
“By me?”
“By anything.”
“You won’t be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because you fight too much.”
She laughed openly then, and the sound hit me harder than it should have. I had not heard her laugh like that since before the marriage and the penthouse. Before everything became strategy, and the sound of it did something to my chest. Something unfamiliar.
“Do you like music?” she asked, clearly full of questions.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Classical.”
She raised a brow. “Predictable.”
“It’s controlled.”
“Of course it is.”
“And you?”
“Anything loud.”
“That contradicts your design aesthetic.”
“No. It fuels it. Even though my designs might look rather subtle to the human eye, they are anything but simple or subtle. They are quietly loud in their own way. Once my collection is complete, you will understand this better.”
She stepped closer as the dance tightened.
“What do you dislike?” she asked.
“Cowardice and disorder.”
“That explains the penthouse.”
“Yes.”
“What about food?”
“Anything really, I don’t care much as long as I don’t have to go hungry.”
“You’re painfully boring.”
“And yet you’re here with me.” She looked up at me then, a little longer than necessary.
“You didn’t have to bring me,” she said quietly.
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because I remember that night.”
“So do I.”
“What do you remember?” I asked, and she hesitated before answering.
“I remember how you didn’t introduce yourself immediately but watched me from a distance and took your sweet time with it. It almost felt as if you were deciding whether I was worth the trouble or not.”
“You were.” She rolled her eyes.
“And I remember thinking,” she continued, “that you were dangerous and interesting and I wanted you to come introduce yourself to me.”
“And what do you think now?” She didn’t answer immediately as the music swelled slightly around us.
“Now I think you’re more complicated than I allowed myself to believe,” she said finally.
“And that disappoints you?”
“It unsettles me.”
“Why?”
“Because it means I might have been wrong about you, and I don’t like being wrong.”
“I have noticed that.”
We moved seamlessly with the rhythm as her hand slid slightly higher along my shoulder. My grip tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist.
“The things you keep doing just keep making it harder for me to hate you.”
I held her gaze. “And does it make anything else easier?”
The song shifted again, slower now, but she didn’t answer my question. Instead, she simply shrugged, her head resting lightly against my chest. The contact was small but deliberate, as if she wanted me to find my answer in that one small movement.
“You’re laughing tonight,” I said softly.
“I am.”
“I haven’t heard that in a while.”
“I know.”
Her fingers traced a subtle pattern against the back of my neck.
“Tell me about your parents,” she said.
“My mother was fairly quiet, much like you, and she loved me a lot. My father, on the other hand, was tough and loud and respected people who had strength. We grew up in a lot of poverty until both of them died, and it was just us siblings left. I was very young then, and even though Kliment was the oldest amongst us, he was young as well.”
“And you joined the bratva after that?”
“We didn’t join the bratva. Kliment had some contacts that he used to get some money for us, which we invested in our hotel business, but the money came from a bratva, and they became involved in the business as well.
If we wanted to grow, we had no choice but to become a part of that world.
So it happened naturally. I proved I was capable of that world, and here I am now. ”
“You don’t need to prove yourself to me,” she said quietly. The words hit harder than they should have.
“I know,” I replied.
The realization crept in slowly. It was not sudden or explosive but steady.
Watching her here, laughing, questioning, dancing without tension, I felt something shift permanently inside me.
This wasn’t strategy or alliance or even leverage, but something much softer and infinitely more dangerous.
I was falling for her, and it was not because she needed protection but because she was rare.
Because she chose to be here tonight. Because she was curious.
Because she laughed openly at something trivial, I whispered in her ear moments later.
Because she didn’t pull away when I drew her closer.
The song ended, and quiet applause scattered lightly around the room. She looked up at me, eyes bright behind the mask.
“Was that your plan?” she asked.
“What?”
“To make me forget.”
“No, I wanted to remind you what being with me felt like before everything went to hell.”
Her breath caught slightly, but she didn’t step away, still clinging to me like I was the only thing that mattered.
As I watched her eyes from behind the mask, I realized that for the very first time, the future I imagined did not revolve around power.
Or territory. Or proving anything to Kliment.
It revolved around her walking out of a room in silk and looking at me like she was choosing to stay.