20. The Gala
The Gala
The dress was red.
I stood in front of the gilded mirror in my room, staring at my reflection, and I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me. The silk clung to my body like a second skin, backless, slit up my thigh, the color of blood and wine and all the things I'd become.
Aleksander had chosen it. Of course he had. He'd had it delivered to my room with a note that said For tonight. —A. No explanation. No request. Just the dress and the expectation that I would wear it.
I'd worn it because I didn't know how to say no anymore.
The gala was a charity event—something for the hospital, for the children's wing, for the public face of the Mire family.
The mansion had been transformed, the ballroom opened for the first time since I'd arrived, the chandeliers blazing with light.
There were flowers everywhere—white roses, white lilies, white orchids—and the air smelled like money and perfume and the particular sweetness of performative generosity.
I walked down the stairs, my hand on the banister, my heels clicking on the marble. The dress whispered against my skin, the slit revealing my leg with every step. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Like everyone in the room could see right through me.
They could. They did.
I felt their eyes before I saw them—Aleksander at the bottom of the stairs, his grey eyes dark with something I couldn't name. Gabriel beside him, his face pale, his hands shaking. Nathan leaning against the wall, his smile sharp, his eyes tracing the curve of my body like he was memorizing it.
"Monika," Aleksander said. He reached out his hand, and I took it. His fingers were warm, steady, grounding. "You look beautiful."
"I look like a whore."
"You look like a Mire."
He kissed my hand—a gesture so formal, so public, that I felt the eyes of the room on us. The other guests, the donors, the politicians, the journalists. They were all watching. All wondering who I was and why I was on Aleksander Mire's arm.
"I don't belong here," I whispered.
"You belong wherever I say you belong."
He led me into the ballroom. The music was soft—a string quartet, something classical, something that made me think of gardens and summer and the life I'd left behind. The guests parted as we walked, their eyes following me, their whispers like the rustle of leaves.
I saw them looking at my dress. At the slit. At the bare skin of my back. I saw the women's envy and the men's hunger, and I felt something shift inside me.
I was no longer the farm girl who'd pulled a bullet from a stranger's side.
I was something else now. Something darker. Something that belonged to this world.
Nathan claimed the first dance.
He appeared at my side the moment Aleksander was pulled away by a donor, his hand on my waist, his lips at my ear.
"You look like sin," he said. "Dance with me."
I should have said no. I should have walked away, found Gabriel, hidden in the crowd. But his hand was warm on my back, and his eyes were dark, and I found myself nodding.
He led me to the dance floor. The music was slower now—a waltz, something intimate and close. He pulled me against him, his hand sliding down my spine, his fingers tracing the bare skin of my back.
"You're wearing this for him," he said. "For my father."
"I'm wearing it because he told me to."
"Same thing." His lips brushed my ear. "But I'm the one holding you. I'm the one who gets to touch you. And everyone in this room knows it."
"Nathan..."
"Hush." He spun me, pulled me back against his chest. "Just dance."
We danced. His hand was everywhere—on my waist, on my hip, sliding lower until his fingers brushed the bare skin of my thigh. I shivered. He smiled.
"I'm going to take you into the coat closet," he whispered. "And I'm going to fuck you so loud everyone hears."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He spun me again, and this time his hand lingered on my thigh, his fingers slipping under the slit of my dress. I felt the heat of his touch like a brand, and my breath caught.
"Behave," I said.
"I don't know how."
I pulled away, stepping out of his arms. The music ended, and the dancers applauded, and I walked off the floor with my heart pounding and my face flushed.
Gabriel was waiting for me at the edge of the crowd.
"Monika," he said. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know anymore."
He took my hand and led me to a quieter corner, away from the crowd. His face was pale, his eyes worried, and I realized he'd been watching. He'd seen everything.
"Please," he said. "Please tell me he didn't hurt you."
"He didn't hurt me."
"He was touching you. In front of everyone."
"Nathan does what Nathan wants."
Gabriel's jaw tightened. "He's my brother. But I swear to God, if he ever—"
"Gabriel." I touched his face, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I'm fine. I'm fine. Just... hold me for a minute. Please."
He wrapped his arms around me, and I buried my face in his chest. The silk of his jacket was soft beneath my cheek, and his heart was beating fast, and I felt something loosen in my chest.
"I love you," he said. "I know you don't want to hear it right now. I know everything is complicated. But I need you to know. I love you. I'll always love you."
"I know."
"I'm not trying to pressure you. I'm just—"
"I know." I lifted my head and kissed him. Soft. Quick. A promise. "I know, Gabriel."
He held me for a long moment. Then the music started again, and I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"May I cut in?"
Aleksander.
Gabriel stepped back, his face a mask of forced calm, and I saw the look that passed between father and son. Something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that would have to be addressed eventually.
Not tonight.
Aleksander took my hand and led me to the dance floor.
The last dance.
He held me differently than Nathan had—not possessively, but carefully. Like I was something precious. Something he was afraid to break.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
I looked up at him. His grey eyes were soft, warm, the lines around them deeper than I remembered. He looked tired. Worn. Like he'd been carrying the weight of the world for too long.
"Your sons," I said. "They both love me."
"I know."
"They both want me."
"I know."
"What are we going to do?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The music swelled around us, the strings rising and falling, and I felt the rhythm of his steps, the steady beat of his heart.
"I don't know," he said. "I've spent my whole life knowing exactly what to do. And now—now I have no idea."
"Aleksander..."
"I love you, Monika." He pulled me closer, his lips at my ear. "I know I shouldn't. I know it's wrong. But I love you. And I can't let you go."
"Then don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't let me go."
He kissed me. Right there, on the dance floor, in front of everyone. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming—a public declaration that I was his.
When he pulled back, I was breathless.
"I'm not going to share you," he said. "Not with him. Not with anyone."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
The music ended. The dancers applauded. And I walked off the floor with my heart pounding and my mind racing and the taste of him still on my lips.
The coat closet was dark.
Nathan found me there, an hour later, when I'd escaped the crowd and the music and the weight of three pairs of eyes following me everywhere. I'd thought I was alone. I'd thought I was safe.
I was wrong.
"Monika," he said. "I've been looking for you."
"I've been hiding."
"From me?"
"From all of you."
He stepped closer, his hands finding my waist in the dark. The closet was small, cramped, the scent of wool and cedar and something floral filling the air. His body pressed against mine, hard and warm.
"You can't hide from me," he said. "You're mine."
"I'm not yours."
"You are. You just don't know it yet."
He kissed me—rough, demanding, his teeth grazing my lower lip. I should have pushed him away. I should have walked out of the closet and gone back to the gala and pretended this wasn't happening.
But I didn't.
I kissed him back.
His hands were everywhere—on my waist, my hips, sliding under the slit of my dress. He found me wet, ready, and he made a sound that was almost a growl.
"You want this," he said. "You want me."
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want you."
He pushed my dress up around my waist, his fingers finding the edge of my underwear. He tore them—actually tore them, the fabric ripping with a sound that was obscenely loud in the dark.
"These are expensive," I said.
"I'll buy you more."
He spun me around, pushing me against the wall, his chest pressed against my back. I heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric, the wet sound of him rolling on a condom.
"This is insane," I said.
"Everything is insane."
He entered me from behind, hard and fast, and I bit my hand to keep from screaming. The wall was cold against my cheek, his body hot against my back, and I felt the rhythm of him, the steady stroke of him, the way he filled me completely.
"Quiet," he said. "You have to be quiet."
I bit down harder. The pain was sharp, grounding, and I tasted blood on my tongue.
He moved faster, harder, his hand covering my mouth. I could feel the sounds building in my throat, the screams I couldn't release, and I bit him—his hand, his palm, hard enough to draw blood.
He groaned. The sound was raw, animal, and I felt him shudder against me.
"That's it," he said. "That's it, Monika. Come for me."
I came. The orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave, and I felt him follow a moment later, his hips stuttering against mine.
When it was over, he pulled out and disposed of the condom. I leaned against the wall, my legs shaking, my body aching.
He turned me around and kissed me. Soft this time. Almost tender.
"You're perfect," he said.
"I'm a mess."
"A beautiful mess."
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—white, monogrammed, the kind of thing that came in boxes of a hundred—and wiped the evidence of himself from my stomach. I watched him fold it, tuck it into his pocket.
"For later," he said.
"You're insane."
"I know."
He kissed me again and then he was gone, leaving me alone in the dark, my dress askew, my body trembling.
I leaned against the wall and tried to remember how to breathe.
The gala was still going when I returned.
I found my way to the bathroom, fixed my dress, fixed my hair. The reflection in the mirror was flushed, wild, the eyes of someone who had just been thoroughly claimed.
I didn't recognize her.
I didn't want to.
I walked back into the ballroom. The music was still playing, the couples still dancing, the champagne still flowing. Aleksander was in the corner, talking to a politician. Gabriel was on the balcony, staring at the stars. Nathan was nowhere to be seen.
I stood at the edge of the crowd and watched them.
The Mire family.
My family.
I was one of them now, whether I liked it or not.