Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Charlotte
The reception for the King and Queen of Spain had been a whirlwind of handshakes, smiles, and carefully crafted words. Diplomacy, I’d learned long ago, was more theater than substance.
My cheeks ached from smiling, my hand from the relentless shaking, and my head throbbed from the tight bun I’d worn all evening.
As I slipped into the back seat of the black SUV, the familiar scent of leather and faint pine greeted me.
I waited until the door clicked shut before reaching up to tug out the pins holding my hair in place.
It spilled around my shoulders in waves, and I leaned back with a sigh, rubbing the sore spot at the base of my skull.
City lights streaked past the tinted windows, but my mind was elsewhere.
Katya.
For the life of me, I couldn’t shake her from my thoughts.
Her defiant smirk, her piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
She was unlike anyone I’d ever met, and she was making it damn near impossible to get a decent night’s sleep.
I’d lain awake the night before, replaying our conversation, wondering what it would be like to have even a fraction of her freedom to push boundaries without worrying about the weight of my name or the expectations that came with it.
My cell phone buzzed in my clutch, pulling me from my thoughts. I fished it out, glancing at the caller ID. My brother William. A smile tugged at my lips despite my exhaustion. I swiped to answer.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the golden boy of Sherwood Forest,” I teased.
“And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me, big sister.” William’s warm, honeyed drawl came through the line.
“Oh, please. You call me every time you need advice or to brag about some new accomplishment. Which one is it tonight?”
“Maybe both,” he said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something else. Mischief, perhaps.
“Out with it, William,” I said, amused.
“I’m getting married.”
The words hit me like a cold splash of water. “Married? To whom? And since when?”
“Anne McElroy,” he said, as if the name alone should explain everything.
“McElroy?” I said, searching my mental Rolodex. “As in the banking McElroys?”
“The very same,” William replied, clearly pleased with himself. “Her family’s got a gorgeous farm out in Manakin-Sabot. And before you ask, no, I’m not marrying her for the land. That’s just a pleasant bonus.”
“And when is this blessed event taking place?”
“Next month,” he said casually.
“Next month? William Byrd Tyler, that’s awfully short notice. She’s not in the family way, is she?” I asked, only half joking.
There was a pause, then a nervous laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but... yes. We’re expecting. Thought we’d make it official before the little one arrives.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Leave it to you to turn a shotgun wedding into a society event.”
“Oh, it’ll be grand,” William said, his charm practically oozing through the phone. “The Country Club of Virginia, all the family, all the trappings. You’ll be there, of course?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said sincerely.
We chatted a bit longer, trading barbs and catching up. William, the baby of the family, had always been spoiled, but he charmed you into forgiving him. By the time we said our goodbyes, I felt lighter.
The SUV pulled to a stop outside my building. My security detail opened the back door, and I stepped out into the crisp night air. The weight of the evening—and the conversation—settled back on my shoulders as I made my way inside, nodding politely to the doorman.
As I rode the elevator up to my apartment, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls.
My hair was loose, my makeup smudged, and my exhaustion plain.
But there was a flicker of something else in my eyes, something that hadn’t been there before.
Anticipation, perhaps? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that my mind, as ever, was racing—with thoughts of William’s wedding, of my own responsibilities, and, most unsettling of all, of Katya.
The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime, and I stepped into the hushed corridor of my floor.
My heels clicked against the polished hardwood as I made my way to my apartment, slipping the key into the lock and stepping inside.
The familiar scent of lavender greeted me, a lingering trace of the diffuser I rarely remembered to refill.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I was genuinely happy for William, and I hoped his marriage to Anne would be a good one.
He deserved that—a loving partner and the stability he seemed to crave now, despite his reputation as the family’s golden, perpetually carefree child.
But as I hung my clutch on the entry table, a memory surfaced, unbidden. Anne McElroy.
I hadn’t heard that name in years. She’d been a freshman at St. Catherine’s during my senior year, wide-eyed and eager to please, with her sights clearly set on a spectacular debut and a subsequent marriage to some suitable Richmond scion.
Unless William was a second or third marriage, perhaps Anne hadn’t been as lightweight as I once thought.
Maybe she’d grown into herself in the years since.
Or perhaps she’d just waited for the right moment.
I made my way to my bedroom, unzipping my gown and letting it pool at my feet. A sigh escaped as I pulled on a simple nightgown and a soft robe, relishing the release from the constriction of formalwear. The relief was almost immediate, like shedding an unnecessary layer of armor.
In the kitchen, I stood before the open refrigerator, debating whether one more glass of wine would help or hinder my chances at a decent night’s sleep.
The headache pressing at my temples argued against it.
I grabbed a glass of water instead, the coolness soothing as I carried it into the living room.
Setting the glass on the coffee table, I scanned my bookshelves for something to occupy my restless mind.
Thrillers were always a safe bet for distraction.
My eyes landed on a worn paperback, its spine cracked from countless reads—The Romanov Prophecy by Steve Berry.
I pulled it from the shelf with a small smile.
It had been ages since I’d last read it.
There was nothing like a good thriller to drown out the noise in my head. Plus, it reminded me of Katya.
I settled on the couch, tucking a throw over my lap and letting the familiar words wash over me. But even as I tried to lose myself in the story, my mind betrayed me, drifting back to Katya’s sharp blue eyes and the way her mouth curved when she smiled. I snapped the book shut with a soft thud.
What was I doing? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about her?
I reached for my water, taking a long sip as I considered the absurdity of my thoughts.
Katya was a former pop star and a political dissident, thrust into a world of chaos and uncertainty.
It was only natural to want to check in on her, wasn’t it?
To ensure she was holding up, adjusting to her new life in New York.
I told myself it was pure altruism, nothing more.
But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. There was something about her—a fire, a boldness—that I couldn’t ignore. Against my better judgment, I decided to reach out to her again.
The next morning found me in my office, seated across from the Mexican ambassador, Jorge Ruiz.
We were discussing some minor trade issue involving the import of avocados.
It was low-stakes diplomacy that didn’t make headlines but kept the machinery of international relations humming.
I nodded politely as he explained his government’s concerns about increased tariffs, though my mind was only half-engaged.
I made a mental note to task my staff with drafting a response that would appease both sides without requiring me to think too hard about it.
I was about to wrap up when the door opened, and Jamie, my chief of staff, stepped inside. His expression was grave, a sharp contrast to the lighthearted conversation I’d been enduring.
“Ambassador Tyler,” he said, his voice clipped. “I need a moment of your time. It’s urgent.”
I frowned, but quickly masked my irritation. “Of course. Ambassador Ruiz, thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch shortly with a proposal.”
Ruiz glanced between Jamie and me, his brows furrowing. Then he rose, offered a cordial handshake, and left without protest. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Jamie collapsed into the chair across from me and let out a long, weary sigh.
“What is it?” I asked, already bracing myself for bad news.
“It’s Navalny,” Jamie said. “He’s dead.”
For a moment, I simply stared at him, the words refusing to compute. “What?”
“Aleksei Navalny,” he said again, his tone quieter. “He died this morning in a Russian gulag. Reports are saying it was organ failure, likely caused by a long-term reaction to the Novichok poisoning. The Kremlin, of course, denies any involvement.”
I closed my eyes, gripping the edge of my desk.
Aleksei Navalny—the opposition leader who dared to challenge Vladimir Putin’s grip on power.
Poisoned with a Soviet-era nerve agent in 2020, he’d barely survived after being airlifted to Germany for treatment.
Despite the world’s warnings, he’d returned to Russia, knowing full well the danger that awaited him.
He’d been arrested almost immediately and sentenced to years in a penal colony on fabricated charges.
And now, after years of mistreatment, the Kremlin had finally gotten what it wanted.
His death.
I opened my eyes and met Jamie’s gaze. “What are the implications?”
He hesitated before answering. “The UNHCR is already discussing measures to increase security for high-profile defectors. That includes Ekaterina Romanova. Her profile isn’t as high as Navalny’s, but this will undoubtedly put her at greater risk.”
I nodded slowly, my thoughts already racing. “Thank you for letting me know. Make sure our delegation releases a statement condemning this atrocity.”
“Of course,” he said, standing. “I’ll keep you updated.”
As the door closed behind him, I was left alone with my thoughts.
A knot tightened in my chest, and this time, I didn’t bother pretending it wasn’t worry for Katya.
I knew she wasn’t foolish enough to take unnecessary risks, but Navalny’s death was a stark reminder of what she’d escaped—and how easily the Kremlin’s reach could extend, even here.
I needed to see her. Not just to check on her safety, though that was part of it. I needed to see her alive, to remind myself that she was here, free, and no longer at the mercy of the men who destroyed Navalny.
I thought back to our night at the jazz club, how much she’d seemed to enjoy the music. Maybe something else musical would appeal to her. But what? I opened my laptop and began browsing for options, my fingers moving almost on autopilot.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was hosting a small concert in two days, featuring Mozart’s String Quartet No.
19 in C Major, nicknamed Dissonance. I wasn’t sure if classical music would appeal to her, but I suspected the museum itself might.
Katya had a restless, curious energy, and the Met might be the perfect place to channel it.
Without hesitation, I buzzed my secretary. “Can you get me two tickets for the Met’s Mozart concert in two days? Also, arrange through the UNHCR for me to meet with Ekaterina Romanova. At the museum, not here.”
“Yes, Ambassador,” she said briskly.
I hung up, staring at the screen for a moment longer. This wasn’t just about checking on her. It wasn’t even about the music. I wanted to see her again, to hear her voice, and to feel that strange, magnetic pull that had lingered ever since our first meeting.
And deep down, I couldn’t ignore the way my heart beat just a little faster at the thought.