Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Katya
The table was small, wobbly, and too close to the stage, but none of that mattered.
Charlotte sat across from me, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a bourbon she’d barely touched.
Her jeans looked new, probably ironed—because she was that kind of woman—and the pink polo she wore made her seem almost... soft.
I reached out and brushed her fingers with mine. “Do you want to talk about that colossal mistake you mentioned earlier?”
Her lips parted like she might answer, but then she looked at our hands. She laid her palm over mine instead and gently shook her head.
“Later,” she said, voice low, barely cutting through the buzz of conversation and music. “Let’s just enjoy the evening.”
I didn’t press her. I leaned across the table and kissed her instead.
Not a polite kiss. Not shy or quick. I kissed her like I meant it, like I had every right to. Her lips were warm and still, then moved tentatively against mine. Her hand twitched in mine. She tasted faintly of bourbon, tension, and restraint.
When I pulled back, she looked startled—but in the good way. A little breathless.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she murmured, a slight smile curling at the edge of her mouth.
“Not yet,” I said. “I like you alive.”
She laughed, ducking her head for a moment. When she looked up again, the edge in her eyes was gone, replaced with something easier, looser. “You know, I don’t usually kiss people in public.”
“I don’t usually kiss diplomats in pink polos,” I shot back, letting my gaze deliberately trail across her shirt. “But I’m trying new things.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So am I, apparently.”
God, she was beautiful when she let her guard down. The smile, the flushed cheeks, the way her fingers kept brushing against mine on the table like she wasn’t ready to let go.
But beneath the surface—beneath the flirtation, the bourbon, the slight flush on her neck—I knew exactly why she was like this. Why she’d shut down earlier. Why her laugh didn’t quite reach her eyes.
I’d seen her speech on the news. Watched it from the safety of the tiny studio apartment, arms folded across my chest like I could hold back the ache building inside me.
Her words were careful, noncommittal, a deliberate dance around accountability.
If I didn’t know her, I’d have been furious.
I’d have lumped her in with the rest of them—cowards in pressed suits, too afraid to say the truth out loud.
But I did know her.
And when I watched her behind that podium, I saw more than her words. I saw the way her fingers curled too tightly around the edge, the flicker of fear in her eyes. Not fear of public speaking—that wasn’t it.
I’d seen that look before in Russia, in the faces of people who once had principles, once believed in something bigger than themselves, and then found out what it cost. Some folded. Some fled, and some broke under the weight.
Charlotte hadn’t broken. Not yet.
And I could feel it—she was close. Close to becoming someone even braver than she already was. Before I could stop myself, I kissed her again, then pulled away and stared into her eyes.
Charlotte looked a little stunned, lips still parted, eyes locked on mine like she was trying to read between the lines of what I’d just done.
“Are you trying to distract me?” she asked softly, her tone caught somewhere between amused and breathless.
“Maybe,” I said. “Is it working?”
She gave a quiet laugh and leaned back in her chair. “You’re trouble.”
I smirked. “And you’re just now figuring that out?”
Charlotte tilted her head, studying me. “You’re very confident.”
“I’m Russian,” I said with a wink. “It’s genetic.”
She shook her head, but her smile was blooming—reluctant and radiant, like it wasn’t sure it was allowed but came out, anyway. I felt the pull in my chest again. Like gravity. Like inevitability.
She rolled her eyes, but her laugh was genuine this time—deep and a little hoarse. I liked that sound. I wanted to hear it again, and again, until I could carve out a world where she could laugh like that without fear.
I was falling for her.
Not in the fast, reckless way I had before—not with musicians or poets who burned too hot and left me scorched. This was slower. Quieter. Every time I looked at her, every time she touched my hand or gave me one of those crooked little smiles, something inside me shifted.
I wanted to protect her. I wanted her to rise up to her potential. And I would do whatever I could to help her grow into the woman I knew she could be.
A hush fell over the club, and a woman took the stage, stepping up to the microphone with the practiced ease of someone who belonged in the spotlight.
“Ladies, gentlequeers, and everyone fabulous in between,” she said with a grin, “please welcome your next performer, the hilarious, the unstoppable—Leticia Fox!”
Applause erupted around us as a tall, full-bodied Black woman strode onstage. High atop her head, she had woven her braids into a crown that glinted gold beneath the lights. She wore a vivid red blazer over a glittering tank top, and she moved like royalty with jokes in her pocket.
I glanced at Charlotte’s profile, lit by the stage. The shadows, the warm lights. Her smile.
Every second I spent with her, I wanted to know her more.
Leticia Fox grabbed the mic like it owed her money and immediately took command of the room.
“Good evenin’, New York!” she called, stretching the word New into three syllables as she paced the stage with a wide grin. “Y’all look beautiful tonight. Or maybe I’m just not wearin’ my glasses. Either way, I’m feelin’ blessed!”
Laughter rippled through the room. Charlotte smiled, and I could see the tension in her shoulders soften another notch.
“Let me tell you somethin’ about my husband,” Leticia said, stopping at the edge of the stage with one hand on her hip.
“Now, I love this man. I do. But he is the slowest man alive. I asked him to bring me the remote the other day, and by the time he got to the couch, Netflix had already asked me if I was still watchin’. ”
The crowd cracked up. Charlotte let out a little snort that made me grin.
“I said, ‘Baby, where were you?’ He said, ‘I had to check the kitchen.’ For what? The remote was not marinating in the fridge!”
She flung her arms wide, eyes huge, as if she were physically trying to wrangle the logic of her husband’s nonsense. It made the room roar.
“And then he’s always got these weird man-fixes for everything. The smoke alarm went off last week—this man waves a towel at it. Like it’s a wasp. Like that’s gonna make the fire go, ‘Oh I’m sorry, let me cool off.’”
I leaned in, laughing so hard I had to wipe my eyes. Charlotte was giggling next to me, her hand resting just barely on my thigh under the table. I didn’t move.
Leticia strutted across the stage again. “And don’t get me started on my brother. Lord, he is fabulous. I’m talkin’ full sparkle, baby. The man came out of the womb with jazz hands.”
The audience whooped.
“He works at Saks Fifth Avenue, sellin’ thousand-dollar creams to rich white women. He told me—told me—‘Tish, if I put this on your face, you’ll be a new woman.’ I said, ‘Baby, for that price, that cream better erase debt and generational trauma.’”
That took the roof off. Even the bartender was doubled over.
Charlotte was beaming now, mouth open in mid-laugh, head tilted back like she could breathe again. I don’t think she even noticed she’d grabbed my hand. I sure did.
“And don’t worry,” Leticia said, still moving, still performing like the stage was her living room and we were just lucky to be invited.
“He’s real sweet to his customers. All, ‘Yes, Miss Carter, this will absolutely tighten your skin.’ Meanwhile, he’s textin’ me under the counter like, girl, this woman’s face is about to disintegrate like a saltine cracker in a thunderstorm. ”
More laughter. More hands slapping tables. But then her tone shifted—just enough. Her movements slowed. She leaned on the mic stand and gave us all a look.
“But y’all, I gotta say. It’s hard to be funny when the world’s on fire.”
The room quieted a little.
“I mean, can we talk about what’s goin’ on in this country? People gettin’ deported who’ve lived here legally longer than I’ve been watchin’ The Young and the Restless—and that’s a long damn time.”
A few people clapped. Leticia gave them a nod of solidarity.
“My day job—I work at the front desk of a hotel in Midtown. Fancy place. Used to be filled with tourists. Now?” She mimed opening the front doors to a ghost town. “Nothin’. Nobody. We’re scarin’ people away like this country’s some haunted mansion ride at Disney.”
She pantomimed looking around the empty hotel lobby, raising her voice an octave. “‘Welcome to America, where our immigration policy is Run, bitch, RUN!’”
Laughter came again, a little slower now, a little sharper. She leaned into the moment.
“It’s like... we took the Statue of Liberty, gave her a security badge, and told her to start checkin’ passports.”
The applause that broke out was louder, deeper. The kind that said yes, keep going. And she did.
“I mean, come on. How you gonna say this is the land of the free when you can’t even get a room unless you pass a background check and a pop quiz on the Constitution?”
She lifted her arms, did a full turn, and bowed like she’d just delivered the gospel.
“I’m just sayin’, y’all. We better hold on to our rights while we got ’em. At this rate, I’mma wake up one day and need a permit to buy a Snickers bar.”
With one final, exaggerated curtsy, Leticia grinned into the mic. “Thank you, New York! Y’all better vote, y’hear me? And tip your waitstaff! Especially if she is fine!”
She winked at our server, then left the stage to wild, sustained applause. People stood up. People cheered.
Charlotte clapped, too, her eyes shining. I watched her more than I watched Leticia. Because something had changed. A light had come back into her expression, and she wasn’t hiding behind it anymore.
She turned to me, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she wanted to say something. But I saw something shift behind her eyes—a shadow passing over the light. Her eyebrows drew together in quiet concern.
“Hey,” she said, leaning toward me, her voice low. “Where’s John?”
It took me a second to catch up. “John?”
“Your security detail. He’s usually somewhere in the background, glaring at people like they just insulted his mother’s cooking.”
I smiled faintly. “Oh. Right.”
I picked up my drink and took a sip I didn’t need. “He came to my door an hour before I left for the club. Told me he’s been taken off my case.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“The UNHCR no longer considers me a threat risk,” I said, lifting a shoulder like it didn’t matter, though it did. “Apparently, I’m safe now.”
She was quiet. Nodding slowly. Too slowly.
I watched her watching her glass. Her mouth pressed into a tight line for a moment, and that was when I knew—she might know something about it. Or at least suspect something. And maybe she wanted to ask me questions too, but didn’t. Just like I didn’t.
Because tonight wasn’t about politics or secrets. Tonight was about the way her laugh had bloomed during Leticia’s set. The way she hadn’t let go of my hand. The way her lips had felt on mine like they belonged there.
So I leaned in and kissed her again.
A slow kiss. Intentional. There was no rush behind it, no urgency. Just the weight of something building between us, fragile and real and alive.
When I pulled back, she was watching me like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
“I’d love to be alone with you,” I whispered, my thumb brushing her jaw. “Can we go back to your place?”