Chapter 19 - Kirsten
I never thought I’d get used to being stared at, but here I am.
The charity gala is in full swing, and everywhere I turn, someone is looking at me. Some glances are curious. Others are envious. A few are downright hostile. But Menlow’s hand rests on the small of my back, warm and steady, and somehow that makes it bearable.
“You’re doing great,” he whispers against my ear as we make our way through the crowd.
“I feel like an animal at the zoo.”
“A beautiful animal.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
He chuckles and steers me toward a cluster of people near the bar.
I recognize a few faces from the office.
Others are strangers in expensive suits and designer gowns.
The venue itself is stunning—a converted warehouse with soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and enough flowers to stock a botanical garden.
String lights crisscross overhead, and a jazz quartet plays in the corner.
“Mr. Karpov!” A silver-haired man in a charcoal suit approaches with his hand extended. “Wonderful to see you. And this must be your wife.”
Menlow shakes the man’s hand. “Richard, this is Kirsten. Kirsten, Richard Holloway. He runs the Holloway Foundation.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, summoning my best smile. “The foundation does incredible work. I read about your literacy initiative last year.”
Richard’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You follow our work?”
“I try to stay informed about organizations making a real difference. The numbers from your pilot program in Detroit were impressive. A forty percent increase in reading proficiency in just six months.”
Richard beams at me like I just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “You’ve done your research.”
“She always does,” Menlow replies, and I can hear the pride in his voice.
Richard launches into an enthusiastic explanation of their upcoming projects, including an expansion into three new cities and a partnership with local libraries.
I nod along, asking questions at the right moments, genuinely interested in the answers.
By the time we excuse ourselves, Richard is practically glowing.
“That was impressive,” Menlow comments as we move toward another group.
“I did my homework before we came. Googled the guest list and researched anyone who seemed important.”
“Of course you did. Always prepared.”
“Someone has to be. You didn’t give me much notice about this event.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished.”
The next hour is a marathon of handshakes and small talk.
I meet donors who want to discuss tax benefits, board members who want to discuss strategy, business partners who want to discuss quarterly projections, and socialites who want to discuss absolutely nothing of substance.
Menlow introduces me as his wife every single time, and each time, a little thrill runs through me.
Not because of the title itself, but because of the warmth in his voice when he says it.
A woman named Celeste corners us near the silent auction table and spends fifteen minutes complaining about her divorce attorney.
A man named Harold tells us about his yacht for so long that I start to wonder if he’s being paid by the word.
Another couple, whose names I immediately forget, wants to know all about our wedding, and I have to improvise wildly while Menlow watches with barely concealed amusement.
“It was very intimate,” I claim. “Just the two of us, really. We didn’t want a big fuss.”
“How romantic,” the wife sighs.
“Very,” Menlow agrees, squeezing my waist. “She swept me off my feet.”
I elbow him discreetly.
I catch snippets of whispers as we pass. “That’s her.” “The one from the office.” “Lucky girl.” “Or maybe he’s the lucky one.” “I heard she was just an analyst.” “Well, she’s certainly moved up in the world.”
I choose to focus on the positive comments and ignore the rest.
“Champagne?” Menlow plucks two flutes from a passing server and hands me one.
“God, yes.” I take a long sip and let the bubbles fizz on my tongue. “How do you do this all the time?”
“Practice. And a high tolerance for bullshit.”
“That explains a lot about your personality.”
He grins down at me. “Careful, Mrs. Karpov. That sounded almost like an insult.”
“Almost. But not quite.”
A woman in a red gown approaches, and I brace myself for another round of introductions.
But she barely glances at me before launching into a monologue about some business deal she wants Menlow to consider.
Something about a merger and tax implications and offshore accounts.
I take the opportunity to sip my champagne and observe the room.
Everyone here is rich. That much is obvious.
The jewelry alone could fund a small country.
Diamond earrings catch the light as women toss their heads in laughter.
Gold cufflinks flash as men gesture expansively.
But there’s something else beneath the glittering surface.
An undercurrent of competition. Of posturing.
Everyone wants something from everyone else, and the smiles are just masks hiding the negotiations underneath.
Is this what Menlow’s life has always been like? Surrounded by people who only see him as a means to an end?
The thought makes me sad for him. And grateful that he chose me. That, out of all these polished, perfect people, he wanted me.
“You’re frowning,” he comments once the woman in red finally drifts away.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how exhausting your life must be.”
He tilts his head, considering. “This is just a normal Tuesday.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“It’s less exhausting with you here. You make it almost bearable.”
“Almost?” I tease.
“Don’t push your luck.”
Before I can respond, another group descends on us.
More names. More handshakes. More champagne.
I smile until my cheeks ache and make conversation until my brain feels like mush.
But I don’t complain. Menlow went to bat for me at that meeting on Monday.
He defended my reputation in front of the entire company and dared anyone to challenge my qualifications.
The least I can do is play nice with his business associates for one evening.
Besides, I’m starting to get the hang of this.
The rhythm of it. Ask about their work. Compliment something specific.
Let them talk about themselves. Nod at the right moments.
Laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. It’s not unlike navigating a particularly tricky negotiation, just with more champagne and fancier clothes.
By the time we’ve made a full circuit of the room, my feet are screaming in my heels, and my bladder is threatening mutiny.
“I need to use the restroom,” I tell Menlow.
“I’ll come with you.”
“To the ladies’ room?”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Menlow, I can pee by myself. I’ve been doing it for twenty-five years.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Don’t be long.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a mock salute and make my way through the crowd.
The restroom is mercifully empty. I take care of business, wash my hands, and spend a moment eyeing my reflection in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looks so put together.
The emerald dress Menlow bought me fits perfectly, and the simple diamond studs in my ears catch the light when I turn my head.
I look like someone who belongs at events like this.
Funny how much can change in a few weeks.
I touch up my lipstick, smooth down a flyaway strand of hair, and head back toward the main event. The hallway is quieter, with the noise of the gala muffled by distance.
“Mrs. Karpov!”
I turn to find a man approaching from a side corridor.
He’s tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair graying at the temples and a smile that doesn’t quite look friendly.
His suit is charcoal or maybe dark navy—expensive, clearly tailored—and he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to getting what he wants.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” I ask.
“Not officially.” He extends his hand. “Congratulations on your marriage. I just heard the news.”
I shake his hand briefly. His grip is firm. Too firm. Like he’s trying to prove something. His palm is cold despite the warmth of the venue.
“Thank you. And you are?”
“Just an admirer of your husband’s work.” He falls into step beside me as I continue toward the main room. I don’t remember inviting him to walk with me. “He’s built quite an empire. The acquisition of Vasiliev Industries was particularly impressive. Very bold move.”
“I’ll pass along your compliments.”
“Please do.” He smiles again, and something about it makes my skin crawl. There’s no warmth in it. Just teeth. “Tell me, how are you finding married life? It must be quite an adjustment, going from employee to wife.”
The question feels pointed. Intrusive. Like he knows more about our situation than he should. But I keep my smile in place.
“It’s been wonderful, actually. Menlow is a remarkable man.”
“I’m sure he is.” The man’s gaze lingers on me a beat too long, traveling from my face down to my dress and back up again. “You’re quite remarkable yourself. Not many people could adapt to his world so quickly. It takes a certain… flexibility.”
The way he says the word makes my stomach turn.
“I’m a fast learner.”
“Clearly.” He stops walking, and I stop too, mostly out of politeness.
I want to keep moving, to get back to the main room where Menlow is waiting, but something tells me that showing fear would be a mistake.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure your husband is waiting.
But it was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Karpov.
I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again. ”
The words sound like a promise. Or maybe a threat. I can’t tell which, and that uncertainty is almost worse than knowing.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” I tell him, and continue walking without looking back.
I can feel his eyes on me the entire way down the hallway. The urge to run is almost overwhelming, but I force myself to maintain a steady pace with my shoulders back, like I don’t have a care in the world.
By the time I reach the main room, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m overreacting. He was probably just another businessman trying to network. Nothing sinister about it. People say creepy things all the time without meaning anything by them.
But the crawling sensation on my skin doesn’t go away.
I spot Menlow near the bar, deep in conversation with two men I don’t recognize. He looks up as I approach, and something in my face must give me away because his brow furrows.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I smile for the benefit of the men he’s speaking with. “Just ran into someone in the hallway.”
He excuses us from the conversation and guides me to a quieter corner near a potted fern. “Who?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name.” I accept the fresh glass of champagne Menlow hands me and take a sip to steady my nerves. “Dark hair, gray at the temples. Nice suit. Very… high-end.”
Menlow’s grip on his glass tightens. “What did he say?”
“He congratulated me on our marriage. Asked how I was finding married life.” I shrug, trying to play it off as nothing. “Normal small talk, I guess. But something about him felt off.”
“Off how?”
“I don’t know. Just… wrong. Like he was fishing for information or something. He mentioned the Vasiliev acquisition. And he looked at me like…” I trail off, not sure how to describe it. “Like he knew things about me. About us.”
Menlow sets his glass down on a nearby table. His face has gone blank, which I’ve learned means he’s working very hard to control his reaction.
“Describe him again,” he prompts. “In detail.”
“Um, okay. Tall. Maybe six-two. Dark hair with gray at the temples, like I said. Brown eyes. Clean-shaven. Mid-forties, maybe early fifties. His suit was very well-tailored.” I pause, trying to remember more.
“He had a slight accent. Eastern European, maybe? Russian, possibly. And he wore a ring on his right hand. Gold with some kind of crest on it.”
Menlow’s entire body goes rigid.
“What is it?” I ask. “Do you know him?”
“I might.” He takes my elbow and starts steering me toward the exit. “We need to leave. Now.”
“What? Why? Menlow, you’re scaring me.”
“I’ll explain in the car.” He nods to a man I recognize as one of his security team, who appears seemingly out of nowhere. “Get the car. We’re leaving.”
“Yes, sir.”
People are starting to stare as we cut through the crowd. I can feel their eyes on us, and the whispers start up again. But Menlow doesn’t slow down.
“Menlow, talk to me. Who was that man?”
“Not here.”
We push through the doors and into the cool night. The car is already waiting, engine running. Menlow opens the back door and practically shoves me inside before sliding in after me.
“Go,” he tells the driver. “Now.”
The car pulls away from the curb so fast I’m thrown back against the seat. I scramble for my seatbelt while Menlow pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously.
“Menlow. Tell me what’s going on.”
He finishes his message and looks at me. His face is grim.
“The man you described. The ring, the accent, the mention of Vasiliev. I think he’s Oleg Volkov’s cousin, Jovan. One of his right-hand men.”
My blood runs cold. “Volkov? As in the Volkovs, who had people threatening me?”
“The very same.”
“But how did he get in? Wasn’t there a guest list? Security?”
“He must have used a fake name. Or he came as someone’s plus-one.” Menlow runs a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter how he got in. What matters is that he was there. And he made contact with you.”
“He just made small talk. He didn’t threaten me or anything.”
“He didn’t need to. The fact that he approached you at all is a message.” Menlow curls his hands into fists on his thighs. “They wanted us to know they can get close to you. To us. Whenever they want.”
I think about the man’s parting words. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.
“He said we’d see each other again,” I tell Menlow. “I thought it was just a pleasantry, but…”
“It wasn’t.” Menlow reaches over and takes my hand. “We need to get home. And we need to figure out what they’re planning before they make their next move.”
The city lights streak past the window as we speed through the streets. I squeeze Menlow’s hand and try to calm my racing heart.
So much for a nice evening out.