Chapter 2
Nicole
The suffocating sensation of being stalked hits me without warning. It has nothing to do with the throngs of people in the nightclub or their curious stares. It’s darker, colder.
From my vantage point in the VIP section, I scan the dance floor for anything out of place.
The lights flicker in erratic bursts, like lightning flashes in a stormy sky, revealing a jungle of twisted faces, their inhibitions thrown aside in the haze of alcohol and primal indulgence.
They trample over each other in a mass of lust, sweat, and cheap perfume.
These are lesser beasts. Not one among them could be the source of my unease.
Yet the feeling of being hunted intensifies. It throbs in sync with the pounding bass, merging with the music until it settles in my chest. A knot of tension tightens around my ribs.
Once again, I’m the prey.
The realization presses against my lungs.
The sharp clink of glass against glass rings out over the music and snaps me out of my trance. I’m not a prey backed into a corner. The familiar voices of my friends envelop me, anchoring me back to reality. Tonight is my twenty-first birthday, and my surprise party is in full swing.
The tightness in my chest eases, but the feeling of being watched still lingers. Behind me are the two large booths my friend Boyana reserved for us. The tables sparkle with high-end liquor, and every important guest is here.
“A toast to the most beautiful birthday girl! The Little Baroness!” The DJ’s cheer bursts through the last remnants of my edginess.
I lift my glass in his direction with a practiced smile.
That toad-faced sycophant wouldn’t have spared me so much as a “Happy Birthday” if I weren’t Nicole Vrancheva, aka the daughter of the Construction Baron.
You could say my family’s name is well-known. In just ten years, Dad went from nothing to building an empire. He clawed his way to the top and secured our spot in Bulgaria’s high society. It would be poor taste on the DJ’s part if he didn’t spend the entire night kissing my ass.
People glance at me from all directions, yet none carry the same unsettling weight as before.
The twins, Misha and Marie, launch into an obnoxiously loud toast in my honor.
Their voices are high-pitched and grating, their insatiable appetite for gossip not unlike a pair of hyenas on the scent of blood.
Although, if Marie resembles a bloated scavenger, her poorly bleached hair doing her no favors, Misha is little more than a withered branch, full of sharp angles and sunken features, her raven hair emphasizing the severity of her face.
As always, they’re dressed in matching outfits, red, this evening, a deliberate choice that ensures their presence is impossible to overlook. A few days ago, they returned from the States for the summer, yet all of Sofia was already aware of their arrival.
Vain, insufferable, and vicious, they could devour anyone who proved inconvenient to them.
But they hold status and influence, and my reputation benefits from being surrounded by the elite.
Besides, as much as I enjoy the attention my name brings, I have no intention of living out my life in Dad’s gilded cage.
One day, I’ll build my own empire, and to do so, I’ll need powerful allies.
As long as the twins remain obedient, they’re welcome at my table.
Standing between the two booths, I raise my glass to each guest—a silent reminder that this party belongs to me.
Aside from the twins, the sons of two of my father’s business associates are present, along with a deputy’s son and his girlfriend, a handful of seniors whose parents hold key positions in the judiciary, the heiress to the Magnate Hotel empire, and a few other strays of no particular social standing.
I make a mental note to ask Boyana what they’re doing here.
Speak of the devil… Boyana throws her arms around me from behind. “I met the love of my life!”
I scoff. My friend is a walking cliché “dumb blonde.” Ever since she dumped her ex—after discovering he had been sending lewd messages to every half-decent-looking woman across the city and the region beyond—Boyana has been seeing the “love of her life” in any man who so much as crosses her path.
And usually, that means junkies, lowlifes, underaged boys.
Or men old enough to be her father. Never someone with actual potential.
“There! There he is!” She points to the circular bar surrounding the dance floor. “Next to the big column by the DJ booth!”
He’s easy to spot. Even sitting, he stands out, taller than the others at the bar. His hair, longer at the top, swept back carelessly, is far too light and trendy, and his face is much too perfect for my taste. But, all things considered, he’s one of Boyana’s better choices.
“Not bad,” I say over the pounding music.
Boyana bites down on her hyaluronic-plumped lips. “He seems more mature, doesn’t he?”
“Girls, this party is insane!” Marie wedges herself between us, vibrating with excitement. “What are you staring at?”
“Boyana’s found her next victim,” I shout over the music, jabbing a thumb toward the dance floor.
Marie’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Oh, no! Again? That would be the second time today, right?”
“I thought we were already on the third?” I arch an eyebrow.
Boyana raises her champagne flute with dramatic flair, spilling a bit of the golden liquid over the deep plunge of her neckline. “Excuse me, I haven’t been with anyone since Antonio.” She nods toward her ex at the far end of the VIP booth.
Antonio and his rowdy gang of degenerates are holding a contest to see who can slip a banknote into the most risqué part of a dancer’s outfit. Our playboy friend—whose only goal in life is to burn through his widowed billionaire mom’s fortune—was yet another of Boyana’s misfired love arrows.
“Pretty sure he’s still into you,” Misha murmurs, her tone just a bit too smooth.
Boyana’s playful pout gives way to a scowl. “He ditched me for some college brat with freckles and a nose ring. So prehistoric. Like, evolve already.”
I chuckle. Boyana might not have the social status of the twins or me, but she’s rich enough, and her attempts to sound smart by misusing big words never fail to entertain me.
“If I were you”—Misha leans in, tapping her glass against Boyana’s with a mischievous clink—”I’d give him another chance.”
Boyana twirls a lock of her hair absentmindedly, her attention drifting over my shoulder, scanning for Antonio. “You think?”
“He told Ekaterina you were stunning tonight.” Sipping her drink, Marie feigns nonchalance, but her game is more than obvious.
I nudge her shoulder hard enough to jolt her off course. “She’s not crawling back to that idiot.”
The twins back off, exchanging glances. They view Boyana beneath thembecause of her lower financial status.
It makes her an easy target, their favorite excuse for so-called innocent jokes.
Not tonight, though. Her vulnerability, born of a situation she didn’t choose, stirs something in me.
I’ve been there. I’ve been her—different context, same humiliation. No one protected me.
“A toast to the Little Baroness!” the DJ roars.
The air presses against me. My pulse pounds against my ribcage like a trapped animal.
The feeling of being watched—of being stalked—returns stronger than before.
This time, an invisible threat slides over my skin, stripping away every layer of my being.
The twins retreat to the booth. Boyana, meanwhile, begins dancing in that provocative way that makes the timid blush.
I inhale and steady myself. A heavy, sweet scent fills my lungs: vanilla with a sharp metallic edge. It invades my nose, my mouth, and burrows deep into my brain.
“I lost him, Nicole!” Boyana’s voice cuts through my haze.
She’s talking about the man at the bar…
An arm snakes around my waist from behind. I jerk away, struggling. My heartbeat drowns out all other sounds.
I’m not prey.
I’m not—
A burst of drunken, slurred laughter. I spin on my heel and come face to face with Antonio’s spirits-glazed eyes. He’s too close, murmuring unintelligible words, his breath reeking of alcohol.
“Get lost!” I shove him.
Damn it.
I need fresh air.
Pushing past Boyana, who’s too busy scanning the crowd for her latest interest to notice anything else, I descend the stairs and leave the VIP section. Once on the lower level, I weave through the jam of bodies on the dance floor.
The deafening beat of the club fades behind me as I walk down the narrow corridor leading outside.
My reflection follows me from the mirror along the polished walls.
The sky-blue dress clings to my hips, highlighting every curve.
Its bodice is snug yet modest, just a promise.
My lips are red like the nail polish on my nails.
Red like the soles of my Louboutins. Red like a warning.
The thought hits me like a punch to the face.
I stop in front of the mirror. Beneath the smoky veil of makeup, behind the warm brown shades of my irises, there’s steel.
I smooth down a stray copper brown lock.
I prefer my hair sleek, polished, with the faintest curled ends.
The simple act of fixing it grounds me in reality.
Another emotion stirs within me. Cold, controlled resolve. A reminder of who I am.
I’m the predator.
I choose when to show weakness. And when to bare my claws.
As soon as I step out of the club, the summer heat settles upon my shoulders, forcing me to fan myself with my hand. My lungs fill with fresh air, and some of my earlier tension begins to ease. I don’t understand my reactions or what caused them. It’s been years since I felt this vulnerable.