Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Noelle
"Ma'am, Miss Vance left last night," Darya whispered as she brushed my hair.
"So suddenly?" I was taken aback.
"Boss's orders. We don't know the specifics."
I fell silent. Kholod's thoughts were always impossible to read.
After she finished my hair, braiding it into a simple fishtail, Darya led the maids out. I settled into the window-side chaise with a book.
The geography magazine fell open to Norway's fjords, but I couldn't absorb a single word.
Since Isabella's visit, Kholod barely set foot in the master bedroom. I didn't bother asking where he went—perhaps while she was here, they spent their time in her room discussing topics that held no interest for me.
Now she was gone. I should have felt relief—no more witnessing their nauseating interactions, no more enduring that gnawing sense of being replaced. Yet the heaviness in my chest refused to lift.
I closed the magazine and gazed at the melting snow outside. Those cold touches, those possessive kisses—they both terrified and... I shook my head, banishing the tangled thoughts, and headed to the library for geography atlases.
Knock knock. Someone at the door.
"Come in."
"Ma'am, Mr. Dmitri has a message," Darya said, entering with a curtsy.
I set down my book and looked up. "Go ahead."
"The boss says in three days, the Morozov family is hosting a charity gala at the Kinmel Performing Arts Center. You're required to attend."
I blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, ma'am. The boss specifically emphasized that this gala is crucial for the family's image. All of Philadelphia's most important political and business leaders will attend. As lady of the house, your presence is mandatory."
Mandatory. Always mandatory.
"I understand. Anything else?"
"A styling team will handle all preparations. Materials and gowns will be delivered shortly. You needn't concern yourself with the details."
"Fine."
After Darya left, I tried to continue reading but couldn't concentrate. I imagined walking arm-in-arm with Kholod, playing the devoted couple under spotlights—such was my "duty."
The guest materials arrived promptly. Staring at the thick portfolio, my head began to throb. Though I'd navigated similar events before, the Bellucci family's network paled in comparison to the Morozovs' labyrinthine complexity.
I had Darya move everything to the conservatory—this kind of work required a pleasant environment.
Settling into my chair, I forced myself to memorize those unfamiliar faces and backgrounds. It felt like those nights cramming financial terminology for my CFA exam.
I was untangling the relationships between several Morozov branch family wives when the sharp click of heels approached rapidly.
Anya appeared in the doorway. She wore a crisp black pantsuit with a long coat that accentuated her already imposing height. She took the chair across from me with little ceremony.
"Mother sent me to highlight the key figures you need to focus on, so you don't stand there like a wooden post, unable to distinguish anyone, and disgrace the Morozov name."
I was accustomed to her blunt arrogance. This directness was actually easier to navigate.
"Thank you for coming," I said with a smile and nod.
Anya seemed pleased with my compliance. She extracted a page from my files. The photograph showed a middle-aged man with a genial smile and immaculately styled hair.
"Richard Joels, city planning committee," she said, tapping the photo with her fingertip.
"He adores discussing family and charity in public, cultivating his devoted family man image.
But never mention his 'private art collection apartment' in the university district—especially don't inquire about that apartment manager who's the same age as his daughter.
With hypocrites like this, simply smile and praise his sense of social responsibility. "
I committed this to memory, impressed by her surgical insight. This wasn't mere gossip—it was precise character assessment.
She flipped several pages, indicating a heavily bejeweled woman with an exaggerated smile.
"Victoria Harrington. Her husband's shipping company is angling for a piece of our business.
" Anya's red lips curved slightly. "She's currently obsessed with collecting nineteenth-century French fans, particularly those with scandalous histories.
You don't need expertise—just comment 'there must be a fascinating story behind such exquisite craftsmanship' when she shows off, then listen.
She'll consider you a kindred spirit, even if you find those tales utterly vulgar. "
"And this one..." Anya's pace quickened, but I kept up effortlessly. Seeing that I not only retained the essential points but could extrapolate with pertinent questions, approval flickered in her eyes.
Perhaps weary from her explanations, she leaned back and studied me while sipping her tea. "That's sufficient for today. You're better than I anticipated."
"I appreciate the compliment."
She looked mildly surprised, then lapsed into brief silence. As I continued organizing my files, she spoke abruptly. "Isabella's gone—finally some peace. Kholod, he..." She hesitated, then concluded tersely, "Just keep your head down, avoid trouble, and you'll manage."
I glanced up in surprise. I hadn't expected such words from her. Her expression was uncomfortable, a flicker of pity crossing her eyes as she regarded me.
She pitied me.
"I will," I answered calmly.
"See that you do." She rose and departed hastily.
I watched her retreat, the oppression in my chest intensifying until I could barely breathe. I quickly reached for my inhaler but still felt something constricting my throat. Pity... How pathetic had I become in their eyes? I couldn't suppress a bitter laugh. That was precisely what I needed least.
On the afternoon of the gala, the entire master bedroom was commandeered by the styling team.
I sat at the vanity, surrendering to their ministrations. The woman in the mirror gradually transformed into a stranger—flawless makeup, an elegant chignon, every detail perfect yet utterly artificial.
"Ma'am, the gown has arrived."
Darya and the maids carefully presented an enormous gift box.
When the dress was revealed, the entire room seemed to illuminate.
Ice-blue satin shimmered under the lights, the hem scattered with delicate crystals. The strapless design sculpted the shoulders and décolletage, the fitted bodice hugged every curve, while the skirt cascaded into an elegant mermaid silhouette.
"This is Valentino haute couture from this season—only three exist worldwide," a stylist murmured reverently.
I stared at the dress, my emotions in turmoil. Kholod never appeared in person, yet he wielded this method to craft me into an exhibition piece.
After donning the gown, I stood transfixed before the mirror.
The woman reflected back was breathtakingly beautiful.
The ice-blue fabric rendered my skin luminously pale, while the sapphire necklace at my throat blazed with brilliance—far surpassing the one he'd given Isabella in both size and clarity.
The stylists chorused their praise, yet that flawless Mrs. Morozov in the mirror felt like a complete stranger.
When our convoy arrived at the arts center, media and guests had already assembled. Kholod emerged first, his black tuxedo lending his features a stern cast. He turned and extended his hand. I drew a steadying breath and placed mine in his palm.
His hand was warm, gripping mine with measured pressure as he assisted me from the vehicle. Camera flashes erupted like a tempest, shutters clicking incessantly.
"Mrs. Morozov! Over here!"
"What are your thoughts on tonight's charitable focus?"
Kholod's arm encircled my waist, creating a barrier against the eager press. I maintained a gracious smile, acknowledging them with subtle nods while remaining silent. Under countless scrutinizing gazes, we entered the opulent ballroom.
Crystal chandeliers cascaded light, champagne fountains sparkled, strings wafted through the air. Every guest wore formal attire and practiced smiles.
"Kholod!" A middle-aged man in navy approached us. "You made it!"
"Mayor Williams," Kholod acknowledged with a nod.
"This must be your lovely wife?" The mayor's attention shifted to me. "I've heard wonderful things. Mrs. Morozov, you look absolutely luminous tonight."
"You're very kind," I replied with a smile.
For the following half hour, I circulated on Kholod's arm among Philadelphia's elite—mayors, congressmen, entrepreneurs, socialites—exchanging the same tedious pleasantries. I functioned as an elegant accessory adorning his arm, smiling and responding at precisely the right moments.
"Noelle!"
A familiar voice rang out.
I turned to see Isabella approaching in a rose-colored gown, her face radiant with joy.
"You look absolutely stunning! Magnificent tonight!" She clasped my hands. "That dress is perfection on you!"
"Thank you," I replied courteously. "You look lovely as well."
"Kholod," she addressed him, eyes bright with anticipation, "thank you for the invitation. I'm truly honored."
Kholod merely offered a cool nod. "Sure."
Watching them, bitterness rose in my throat once more. So he had invited her. Of course. She was organizing a charity auction—this gala would provide excellent research material. How considerate of him.
The orchestra struck up a waltz. The ambient lighting dimmed, leaving only the spotlight illuminating the dance floor. Guests instinctively withdrew, every eye focused on the center.
Tradition dictated that the evening's first dance belonged to the host and hostess. I gathered my skirts, preparing to step forward. Kholod released my hand and strode toward the dance floor.
His steps never faltered. He walked past me entirely.
Kholod approached Isabella and, before the assembled crowd, extended his hand with practiced elegance.
"May I have this dance?"