Chapter 38
AMALIE
The gala is in full swing, and Roman starts introducing me to guests, one after another. I meet board members and curators, donors and politicians. Roman keeps me close, his hand occasionally landing on the small of my back, his touch warm and steady.
Then there are the women who can’t stop staring at Roman, smiling at him like I don’t exist.
One of them, with severe, beautiful Slavic features, her body tall, thin, and poured into her black gown, approaches him. She tilts her head at me as if I’m a curious new exhibition.
“Good evening, Roman,” she says smoothly, planting a kiss of greeting on his cheek. He accepts it, then backs away.
“Good evening,” he cordially returns.
The woman’s ice-blue eyes flick to me. “So, this is the famous Amalie. How cute.”
Roman’s expression remains stoic, but I can feel the air shift, as if he’s waiting, expecting her to step out of line.
“Hi,” I say pleasantly. “You obviously already know my name. And you are…?”
“Mila,” she says. “Roman and I have known one another a long time.”
Roman’s hand rubs my back, a subtle reminder he’s at my side.
“What a lovely name,” I say, smiling. “I haven’t heard it before.”
Her eyes flash for a second, like she didn’t expect I would have anything to say.
Mila gazes up and down my body with a syrupy look of faux pity. “Well,” she murmurs, “you’ve certainly broadened your tastes, Roman.”
The words hit like a slap, sharp and hot. Before I can decide whether I’m going to respond with an insult of my own or simply toss the rest of my club soda in her face, Roman speaks.
“Careful,” he warns.
She laughs lightly. “Oh, Roman, I’m just playing around. No need to be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being patient. Perhaps more patient than I should.”
Her smile fades just a bit.
“You will not comment on her body again,” he says. “Not here, not anywhere.”
Her cheeks turn a deep red, her eyes widening as her hand goes to her throat as if shocked. “Roman, I didn’t—”
He doesn’t let her finish. “She is beautiful,” he says simply. His tone is more like he’s stating a fact than offering his opinion. “And you’re embarrassing yourself.”
Her eyes flash again, an intense mixture of anger and humiliation. She lifts her chin and glides away, as if she’s the one dismissing us.
My heart is hammering, but I stay calm. I refuse to shrink.
Roman looks at me, his eyes dark. “Are you alright?”
I take a deep breath, letting my nerves settle. “I’m fine. But just so you know, I am strongly considering committing a major felony in the middle of the Art Institute of Chicago. So it’s probably not a good idea to leave me unattended right now.”
A faint smile of amusement tugs at his mouth mixed with a bit of pride. He takes my hand and strokes the back of it with his thumb. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
He leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. I practically melt on the spot.
“Now,” he says, “although this is a big night for me and my company, if you’re still feeling overwhelmed, we can leave. Tell me.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m good. I was just starting to have fun. Not a chance I’m going to let someone like her ruin what has otherwise been a lovely evening.”
He smiles. “That’s my girl. Come. There are more people I would like you to meet.”
We make our way to a few more groups, Roman introducing me to each person. Some are polite while others are cautious, some openly trying to figure out what I’m all about.
When we reach the bankers, I can tell who they are right away.
They dress and carry themselves in a particular way, just like the Bratva men.
These are the most important people at the gala to impress tonight.
The IPO remains stalled, even after Roman brought Thomas Blair everything he’d requested.
“They’re spooked,” he’d told me after his meeting with Blair.
“They’re going to wait and see to make sure there are no more surprises. ”
Roman hadn’t liked that news one bit. He wants the IPO back up within the week to make sure his timetables stay on track. I can tell by the tone of his voice when he talks about it that part of him worries the deal is already dead.
Roman nods toward a tall man with silver hair and a suit as perfect as his smile. “That is Douglas Callahan, VP of Silver Oak Holdings and a board member of the Art Institute. One of my biggest investors. He has the most sway over the others.”
“Is he the one who’s holding things up?”
“In a matter of speaking. If I could persuade him to get back on board, many others would follow suit. But he’s a tricky man.”
“Got it.”
Callahan turns to us as we approach. He flashes a row of perfect veneers, his eyes behind a pair of dark red glasses.
“Mr. Barinov,” he says smoothly. “I was wondering when I would get the chance to speak to the man of the hour.”
Roman takes his hand and shakes it. “Roman, please.” Then he gestures in my direction. “And this is Amalie Denning.”
His gaze flicks over me, assessing. When he offers his hand, I take it. “A pleasure, Miss Denning.”
“There are some matters I would like to discuss,” Roman tells him.
The conversation between the two of them flows from there. Roman is calm, professional, and controlled. He speaks about the foundation, the museum, the donors. Callahan nods along politely.
But there’s an obvious tension underneath.
“And we are of course looking forward to getting IPO back on track—when you’re ready to move forward.”
Callahan’s easy smile fades. “As am I, Roman,” he says. “But it’s tough, I’m afraid. We’re still working through the situation. The recent complications have made the timeline a bit sticky.”
Roman’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Of course. I assume you’ve had a chance to look over the report in response to the city’s inquiries?”
“I certainly have. And it was most reassuring. I have no doubt that whatever the city had in mind, it was an error.”
“But…” Roman leads.
“But it’s still a matter of being spooked. Only time can assuage that. I’m sure things will be moving along before too much time has passed. It’s just a matter of caution. Surely you can understand.”
I can feel Roman holding his temper by the throat and he’s doing it beautifully.
“I certainly can,” Roman says. “And please, rest assured that I am more than happy to do what I can to address all concerns.”
Callahan’s eyes flick to me again, then back to Roman. “Good to hear. Trust me, we’d all like to see this proceed. Assuming it can be stabilized.”
These men don’t care about how Roman feels. They don’t care about his goals beyond how those goals can benefit them. They care about headlines and optics and risk.
And Roman most definitely has the potential to make headlines.
I step in slightly, close enough to be included but not so close that I’m intruding. Roman’s hand shifts on my back.
“Mr. Callahan, may I ask you something?” My tone is light and causal.
He turns to me, his interest piqued. “Of course, Miss Denning.”
“I’ve been learning a lot about the foundation tonight,” I say, “and about what it funds—like education initiatives and community programs. But I keep thinking that the most powerful thing you could add isn’t another grant. It’s something more permanent.”
Roman’s gaze sharpens as he listens intently.
Callahan’s interest flickers. “Permanent?”
“Yes. I’m thinking a children’s art studio.
” My tone warms as I speak. “Here in the Institute or connected to it. Or maybe even a separate building on the property. A dedicated space under the Barinov Foundation. Not just workshops, but an actual studio program. Weekly classes. Supplies provided. And scholarships for kids who wouldn’t normally get access.
Trauma-informed educators. A place where children can build confidence and control through creation. ”
I can’t believe how easily the words pour out of my mouth.
Callahan’s brow lifts slightly. “That’s an interesting idea.”
“It’s also personal,” I add gently, glancing at Roman for a moment. “Roman’s not just a businessman. He’s also a father. And he’s been there for his son in ways most people can’t even imagine—raising him after he lost his mother, protecting him, showing up every day no matter what.”
Roman is still beside me.
“Think about how it would look,” I continue. “The foundation board doing something real for those who need it the most. I can already picture the sign. ‘The Callahan Studio for Children’s Creative Arts.’ Oh! Or how about this, ‘The Callahan Studio for Young Artists.’”
Callahan says nothing, but I know he’s picturing it in his mind’s eye. He looks at me, then at Roman.
“I would love for you to take the initiative on such a project,” Roman says. “If you feel up to it.”
Callahan stays silent, nodding slowly, his hand on his chin in contemplation. “That could play out very well,” he finally says.
“And it would give you a chance to work more closely with Roman,” I point out. “See how good he is at what he does.”
Callahan gives the matter a few more moments of thought, then clears his throat.
“I’d like to discuss this further,” he says.
“Perhaps tomorrow morning? And while we’re talking it over, we can revisit the IPO.
I’ve got a few questions, and if you’re up to answering them, I don’t see any reason why we can’t get this thing back on track. I could make some phone calls.”
Roman remains composed as ever, but I can tell by the glimmer in his eye and the way his jaw flexes that he’s over the moon.
“I would like that. Let’s plan for nine tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent,” Callahan agrees with a smile. “And if we do get this project up and running, Miss Denning’s input would be most appreciated.”
They shake hands again, he nods to me, and Callahan walks away. Once he’s gone, Roman doesn’t smile, doesn’t let out a big exhale of relief. That’s not his style.
When he finally looks at me, something in his eyes makes my heart clench. It’s not lust, not dominance, not anger.
It’s gratitude.