Chapter 12 #2
The car stopped at the building entrance. A red Christmas wreath hung over the revolving door, two uniformed security guards flanking it. Through the glass, I could see the lobby already filling with people heading toward the elevators, everyone in formal wear—women in jewelry, men in suits.
The driver opened my door.
I stepped out. The night wind hit me, cold, but my coat was wrapped tight.
I walked into the lobby, pressed the elevator button, and rode to the top floor. I took off my coat and handed it to the attendant at the door.
"Ella!"
I turned.
Lily stood nearby in a sapphire blue sequined dress, hair pinned up, champagne glass in hand. She rushed over, heels clicking on the marble floor.
"Oh my god!" She stopped in front of me, looking me up and down. "That dress—it's gorgeous! Where'd you get it?"
"A-a friend gave it to me."
"What friend is that generous? That fabric looks expensive." Lily leaned closer, lowering her voice. "It's not Mr. Volkov, is it?"
"No!" I denied too quickly.
Lily narrowed her eyes, giving me that "who are you kidding" look, then laughed.
"Okay, okay, I won't push." She linked her arm through mine. "Come on, let's go up. The ballroom's on the top floor. I heard tons of major clients came tonight."
We followed the crowd into the elevator.
The elevator was packed tight, and I pressed into a corner, hand on the rail. Lily chattered beside me, but I couldn't focus, my mind filled with images of seeing him soon.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
The top-floor ballroom was massive beyond belief.
Bigger than I'd expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped three sides, pulling Manhattan's night view inside—city lights like diamonds scattered on black velvet, near and far, layered and dense, almost unreal in their brightness.
Long tables filled the space, white tablecloths, candlelight flickering on candelabras, a string quartet in the corner, perfume and rustling fabric, glasses clinking, low laughter and English and Russian weaving together like some luxurious soundtrack.
I stopped at the entrance for two seconds.
For a moment, I felt like there was some indefinable distance between me and this place.
But only for a moment.
I took a deep breath and walked in.
Lily got pulled away by another colleague. I grabbed a champagne glass and found a corner to stand in, trying not to look too out of place.
"Ella."
That voice came from behind me.
I turned.
Sergei stood in front of me.
He wore a deep black three-piece suit, white shirt, deep wine-red tie—the exact color of my dress. Silver hair perfectly combed, catching the ballroom lights with a cold gleam.
He looked good at the office normally.
But tonight—
He looked unreal.
His gaze swept over me, head to toe, slowly, carefully, like viewing art.
"You..." I opened my mouth. "Your tie..."
His mouth curved slightly. "Matches the dress I gave you."
My face instantly burned.
"Don't you need to schmooze?" I gestured toward the group of clients clearly waiting for him. "They seem to be looking for you."
He glanced that way, then turned back.
"Let them wait."
His gaze returned to my face, lingering longer this time.
"You're beautiful tonight," he said, voice low enough only I could hear.
"You already said that."
"Earlier, I said the dress looked good," he said. "Now I'm talking about you."
My heart pounded too fast, so fast I worried he could hear it.
"Sergei," I said quietly. "There are a lot of people here."
"I know." He reached for two champagne glasses from a nearby table, handing me one. "So?"
"So stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"Like... like you want to eat me alive."
He laughed.
That smile looked especially good under the ballroom lights, the lines at his eyes softening, all the ice on his face melting.
"Fine," he said. "I'll save it for after the gala."
"You—"
"Come on." He set his empty glass on a passing waiter's tray and extended his arm to me. "Let me introduce you to some people."
I took a deep breath and linked my arm through his.
His arm was firm. Through the suit jacket fabric, I could feel the outline of his muscles.
He led me through the crowd.
Every few steps, someone approached. "Mr. Volkov, tonight's gala is wonderful." "Mr. Volkov, this is—"
Every time someone asked about me, he'd say, "Ella Collins, architect from the design department, the hero of our new project."
No suggestive modifiers, no uncomfortable introductions.
Just a simple sentence, respectful enough and commanding enough that no one dared look down on me.
I stood beside him, watching him shake hands, exchange pleasantries, talk business. His expression matched his office demeanor—cool, controlled, keeping people at a distance. But his hand never left my waist, that subtle touch a constant reminder: You're here because I want you here.
When clients toasted, he took the glass and drank for me.
"She's been working too hard lately. Let her rest tonight," he said, tone as natural as commenting on the weather.
The clients smiled and didn't push.
I watched him down the third glass of champagne for me, my throat suddenly tight.
He still wore that impassive expression, but his ears had turned red—even someone with his tolerance showed signs after three glasses.
All night, his hand stayed on my waist. His fingers occasionally tightening, his thumb occasionally sliding across my side, each touch transmitting warmth through fabric, making my heartbeat rise and fall with it.
When we passed the ballroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass reflected our two figures.
He was tall. I reached his shoulder.
He wore a deep black suit, and I wore a wine-red dress.
His hand rested on my waist. When someone had taken photos earlier, I hadn't pulled away, and he hadn't let go.
That reflection looked—
Like a married couple.
When that thought surfaced, my heart lurched hard.
Halfway through the gala, I told Sergei, "I'm going to the restroom."
He nodded, releasing his hand from my waist. "Go ahead. Don't get lost."
"I'm not a child."
"You've been wobbling all night. Almost stepped on your hem three times already."
"That's because of the heels."
"Fine, go." His mouth carried that smile I both loved and hated as he watched me leave.
The hallway was colder than the ballroom. I hunched my shoulders, searching for a while before finding the restroom. I pushed the door open—marble counters, gold faucets, spotless mirrors, warm yellow lighting that made everyone look good.
Okay, stay calm.
I took a deep breath in front of the mirror, touched up my makeup with powder, and applied another layer of lipstick.
The woman in the mirror had flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and a smile at the corners.
That reflection looked deliriously happy.
I smiled at her, tucked my lipstick back in my clutch, and pushed the door open.
In the hallway's dim yellow light, I could faintly hear the string music from the ballroom. I'd taken a few steps back when I heard footsteps ahead around the corner, instinctively glancing in that direction.
A man's back.
Dark brown hair, slightly messy, gray suit not as precisely tailored as Sergei's but still decent. He was walking quickly toward the corner, his profile flashing in the light for just a second.
That profile.
My steps stopped.
Impossible.
I squinted. The figure had already turned the corner and disappeared.
I stood frozen for two seconds, then instinctively followed.
Heels clicking on marble, my ankle a bit unsteady, I braced against the wall and rounded the corner.
The hallway was empty.
Just a door leading to the stairwell, slowly closing, leaving a thin gap.
I stood there, staring at that door, my heartbeat strange.
Probably mistook him for someone else.
No, I couldn't convince myself to leave. I had to be sure.
I took a deep breath, bent down and slipped off my shoes, carried them, then pushed open the door.
Someone was in the stairwell.
Leaning against the railing, cigarette in hand, smoke curling overhead, face unclear in the backlight. Hearing footsteps, he turned.
My brain went completely blank in that instant.
"Hey," he said, mouth curving just like two years ago. "Ella, long time no see." He looked me up and down, gaze pausing on my shoes in my hand, laughing softly. "What, been a server so long you can't even handle heels anymore?"
It was Dmitri.
Really him.
These past two years, I'd imagined running into him so many times—I'd find him, settle every account from the past two years, then walk away without looking back.
But I never imagined it would be in the stairwell at a Christmas gala, me holding my heels, him leaning against the railing smoking.
Rage and resentment nearly consumed me. It took three full seconds before I could speak again.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
He flicked ash, unhurried. "Attending the gala. I have an invitation too."
"Whose guest are you?"
He didn't answer, just lifted his head, smoke drifting from his mouth, his eyes carrying something I once thought was tenderness but now just made me sick.
"Where the hell did you disappear to these past two years?" I asked, voice steadier than expected. "Two hundred thousand in debt, just dumped it on me, not a cent, vanished into thin air?"
"Ella—"
"Half my paycheck every month went to interest," I took a deep breath, arms crossed over my chest, forcing down my fury.
"Three jobs—cleaning, restaurant, translation—I worked my ass off for two years and barely paid off a third of the principal, and you," I looked him over, rage surging higher, "look like you've been doing pretty well these past two years. "
"Ella." His voice dropped. "I know you feel wronged."
"Wronged?" I almost laughed. "No, I don't feel wronged. I just think you're a piece of shit."